


Carousel (or How Everyone Found Out About Jack & Gabriel)

by MsTrick



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Boys Kissing, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Gay Sex, Hand Jobs, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Not Canon Compliant, Reaper76 - Freeform, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-12
Updated: 2019-05-10
Packaged: 2019-05-21 08:11:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 24,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14911665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsTrick/pseuds/MsTrick
Summary: Jack doesn't want anyone to know about him and Gabriel. But, of course, everyone finds out one way or another: through an apple, a missed shot, a stolen file. Or just plain old spying.





	1. Doomfist / Pharah / Widowmaker / Mercy

**Carousel**

or

 **How Everyone Found Out** **About Jack & Gabriel**

* * *

 

**Chapter 1**

**Subterfuge / Kitchen / Apple / Hangar**

* * *

 

As he assessed each of the Talon council members, Akande slowly opened and closed his right hand, the prosthetic not yet fully familiar. There was a debate over their next moves, what aspects of the crisis to capitalize on. Several holographic windows hung suspended over the center of the table: a silent video feed, maps marked with destroyed cities, a pair of photos. 

“Jack Morrison and Gabriel Reyes,” Maximilien stated. “The top two inductees in the US Soldier Enhancement Program. Their performances recently garnered the attention of the UN. Both have been tapped to join what they’re calling the Overwatch initiative.”

“All other military attempts to repulse the omnics have failed,” Vialli dismissed with a wave of his hand. “There’s no reason to think this will be any different.”

“Still, we can’t let something like Overwatch go unmonitored,” Hakim declared.

Akinjide Adeyemi nodded, but his eyes were unfocused. With his imposing physical form and the horned doomfist catching the light, he resembled a bored regent. Akande, at his side, was irritated, though his face revealed nothing. Adeyemi was the reason he was here, but his disinterest in Talon’s overarching, international goals marked him as a future weakness.

As the discussion droned on, Akande’s attention was drawn to the feed replaying in the air: aerial footage of soldiers running drills at the SEP base. Almost all of them were dead now. A pity. Their forces had been excellent examples of how war pushed humanity to new heights. The holograph flickered in the low light.

“There is an opportunity here that you are missing,” Akande stated, slicing through the conversation.

Vialli had been rudely cut off mid-sentence. Akande bore the other the council members’ piercing gazes without flinching, despite being nearly half their ages. 

After rewinding the footage several seconds, he enhanced a corner until the image integrity threatened to dissolve into pixels. The incident was only just visible, and it was brief. While walking from the training field towards a low building, Reyes slung a friendly arm around Morrison’s shoulders and the instant they rounded a corner, pulled him into a kiss.

Hakim raised his eyebrows. Adeyemi laughed and clapped a hand onto Akande’s shoulder.

“That’s my man. Always noticing the details. What’s your plan?”

“The Reaper.”

 

* * *

 

 _The world-class sniper rolls across the hallway and ducks behind the corner, listening to see if she’s been noticed. She knows that she’s exposed here and so dives through the automatic door. Taking her position, she waits._

_And waits._

_Ugh, this is SO boring._

Fareeha huffed and flopped out of her tactical crouch. How did her mother do this? Stay in one place for hours and hours?

Sitting on the ground, she gazed through the plexiglass section of the bannister down at the quiet fourth floor. The sun set pretty early in Zurich in winter and it was dark already, but the only room with all its lights on was the kitchen. Everywhere else was only half-lit. Torbjörn said it was an energy-saving measure, until the entire staff was moved in. Reinhardt said it was gloomy. Fareeha agreed with Reinhardt.

Everything was shiny and brand new, the walls freshly painted in white, blue and a smidge of yellow. She wouldn’t tell anyone, but it made her a little nervous, running around this big, empty building by herself. Usually, she’d be begging Reinhardt to tell her more stories or holding Torbjörn’s tools while he muttered in Swedish at some device.

But they were too busy these days. Everyone was, including her mother. That’s why Fareeha would teach herself to become a great sniper too. She was going to be even better than her mom at protecting the innocent. And then she’d join Overwatch and be able to hang out with all of them all the time. Gabriel had laughed though. He said that she didn’t sit still long enough to be a good sniper, that she kept jumping up and running into action.

She’d show him.

Recommitted to her mission, she scooted behind the opaque part of the bannister and pulled the scope out of her sweater pocket. Her mom wouldn’t let her borrow a whole sniper rifle, but that was okay because the scope was the coolest part anyway. Peering downstairs, she had a clear line of sight to the kitchen. She could even see the crumbs on the countertop from the toast she’d had that morning.

“The more you know, the less likely you are to be surprised. If possible, always check out the area beforehand,” she recited under her breath.

Her target got coffee around 4pm every day. That’s why she planted one of two communicators inside her stuffed pachimari toy and purposefully left him in the kitchen. Torbjörn’s only warning when he gave her the paired devices was not to break them.

_Finally, the target is in the sniper’s sights. Evil Gabriel going to his evil kitchen lair to get evil coffee. She lines up her shot… Oh no, it’s blocked by another person. Enemy or civilian?_

Fareeha thought for a moment before deciding that she couldn’t pretend Jack was a bad guy too. He gave her cookies even after her mom scolded him about it. She’d have to wait for a clear shot, and in the meantime, she’d gather — what was the word? Intel!

The two men’s voices began to trickle out of the hidden communicator as they came in range of her pachimari. Her device was too big to stay in her ear, so she just held it in place with her palm. She tried not to fidget, even though she was kind of chilly, sitting on the floor.

“—not trying to hide anything. If they find out, they find out. I just don’t think it’s a good idea to be obvious about it,” Jack was saying.

“Yeah, yeah,” Gabriel groused, pouring coffee.

“Gabe…”

“I get it. I don’t want to be a liability for you either.”

Jack caught Gabriel’s dog tags in his hand and gazed at them with a small smile, murmuring something the pachimari didn’t pick up. Still annoyed, Gabriel pulled away to return the milk to the fridge. Jack watched him in silence.

Fareeha yawned. Her arms were getting tired from holding up both the scope and the earpiece. What exactly was the point of intel, anyway? All she wanted was to line up her shot and watch Gabriel jump when she yelled BANG into the communicator. And then she’d run downstairs and tell him he was dead because of her sniper skills.

“Quit looking at me like that,” Gabriel growled, shoving past Jack to return to his cup of coffee.

Jack’s jaw tensed and he grabbed Gabriel’s shoulder, pulling him back around to face him. Fareeha waited for the follow-up punch, but then—

_Oh, gross, adults kissing._

She rolled her eyes. There went her shot.

Gabriel’s hands came up to cradle Jack’s face and stayed there when the kiss broke.

“This doesn’t fix things,” Gabriel said, soft tone belying the rebuke.

“I know. It’s just, I don’t want you to think…”

“I know.”

_This mission sucks._

There had to be better, cooler ways of protecting the innocent than this. After a baleful glare at the earpiece, now emitting more kissy sounds, Fareeha decided to go find Ingrid. Maybe baby Brigitte would be awake by now and she could play with her some more.

 

* * *

 

It was an apple that tipped Amélie off. A small, simple gesture. 

She was waiting in the bustling HQ lobby for Gérard to finish his meeting with Reyes and Morrison. He was late. Bored, she pulled her long, dark hair into a ponytail. Gérard preferred it down, especially on their dinner dates, but after all those years in the ballet, it felt more natural for her to wear it up.

A familiar voice said: “Hello there, Amélie.”

“Captain Amari, it’s nice to see you again.”

“Just Ana, please,” she said warmly, taking the chair opposite the couch Amélie was lounging on.

Amélie took stock of the older woman’s appearance. Since the last time they’d seen each other, strands of steel grey had begun to streak Ana’s hair and wrinkles had begun to gather at the sides of her mouth. There was a deep weariness about her. Amélie couldn’t imagine the strain she must go through. Though the crisis was over, there was no one to take her mantel yet, as team leader in the field or as their preeminent sniper, and so Ana was still regularly sent out on missions.

It must weigh on her terribly, Amélie thought, all those lives she’d had to take, all those near-misses on her own life. While she admired Ana’s grit and envied her contributions to the world's fragile peace, Amélie was nevertheless grateful her own role in Overwatch was to support, to be there for her husband, to remind him of the world he was fighting for.

“The meeting is over?”

“Yes. They’re just finishing up.”

“Has the change in command happened then?”

“Gérard’s told you, has he? I worry about him confiding so much in you.”

At Amélie’s vexed look, Ana hastened to add: “Oh, it has nothing to do with your trustworthiness. I’m more concerned you may become a target yourself. There’s already been more than one attempt on Gérard’s life.”

“I know that, don’t I?”

Amélie tried not to dwell on those incidents, the hours she’d paced around that hospital waiting room, the week she spent clutching her phone, desperate for information, fearing the worst. Gérard was a fighter though, always had been. He’d pursued her despite some admittedly rude rebuffs on her part, charming her outside the theatre, making her laugh. His devotion to her was rivaled only by his devotion to his work. She was proud of him for that. Even if she was captured or killed, she knew Gérard wouldn’t stop trying to make the world a better place. He was untouchable.

“Ah, there they are,” Amélie said.

At the far end of the room, Gérard had emerged with Reyes and Morrison, who was a few bites into a red apple. As though his All-American Boy image needed any more reinforcement.

“That will be my cue,” Ana sighed, standing. “Look after yourself out there.”

Gérard moved towards them, pausing to murmur a few words to Ana.

Amélie’s gaze shifted to the two men conversing on the other side of the busy lobby. Morrison was talking fast and gesturing animatedly. He seemed excited and at the same time, guilty about being excited. Expression neutral, Reyes plucked the apple from his fingers and took a bite.

Then, instead of handing it back or finishing it, he gently shoved it into Morrison’s mouth. Morrison blinked in surprise. He held Reyes’ gaze for a few seconds, then slowly reached up to grab the fruit.

Amélie tilted her head as a smirk formed on her lips. Well.

“Chérie,” Gérard said as he approached.

She returned his kiss and let him help her into her trench coat.

“Isn’t it rude for Morrison to be eating during your meeting?” She asked in French.

Gérard laughed.

“Ah, leave him be. He’s been under a great deal of stress lately and he’s just agreed to be put under more.”

“He accepted the role then?”

“Only after Reyes accepted the offer to command our covert operations.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” she said, taking his arm.

The streetlight shone down warmly, but a chilly wind was blowing.

“I will admit, I’m a little concerned,” Gérard murmured to her as they walked, huddling into each other.

“Oh?”

“Reyes is famous for talking back and mouthing off, but when something truly pains him, he says nothing. He has a great deal of respect for Morrison and is no doubt glad on his friend's behalf, but I can’t imagine he doesn’t feel upset at being passed over for the position.”

“Do you think the UN made a mistake?”

“Truthfully, no. It would be challenging to find a better tactical leader in battle than Reyes, but Overwatch needs someone with Morrison’s optimism at its head.”

Amélie nodded, thoughtful. She replayed in her mind the way Morrison’s eyes held Reyes’ as he reached for the apple, and her lips curled into a small smile.

“Don’t worry, mon amour. I have a feeling it will all work out somehow.”

 

* * *

 

Angela dawdled on the way back to HQ, her lab coat folded over her arms. It was such a nice day, warm and breezy, their first taste of real spring weather. She turned her face into the sun, delaying the moment she’d have to re-enter the hyper air-conditioned, sterile halls of her workplace. 

The smell of smoke wafted towards her and she spotted Jesse leaning against one of the elms that framed the building entrance.

“Howdy, doc,” he said with a tip of his hat.

“You know how I feel about your smoking,” she chided, waving a hand through the air in front of her face.

He shrugged and gave her a winning smile. It was difficult to stay mad at him for long. 

“Do you know where Commander Morrison is?”

“In the hangar with the boss, checkin’ out the new rocket ship.”

“I doubt it’s a rocket ship,” Angela laughed.

“Looks enough like one. Just saw the engineering team they were meetin’ with head out for lunch, so I reckon the Commander’d have a moment free now.”

She thanked him and took the plunge back into the frigid interior, pulling on her coat as she made her way through the labyrinthine facilities.

Entering the hangar was always intimidating. It was dominated by a pair of battle-scarred drop-ships, now starkly contrasted by the sleeker, newer iteration. There was some activity at the far end of the cavernous space, mechanical noises and a burble of commentary. Likely Torbjörn lost in some project. Other than that, the hangar was fairly quiet. 

Angela paused inside the door, where there was an open stretch of well-lit space. Squinting, she spotted the two commanders talking – no, arguing – in front of the new drop-ship. She bit her lip.

It had been impossible not to notice the rising tension, Gabriel’s fuse shortening, as Jack fully settled into the role of Strike Commander. It gnawed at her, that there seemed to be no solution to this, nothing anyone could say to smooth this over. She worried the animosity would build until it exploded.

Crates of cargo and heavy equipment created a maze that she picked her way through, careful of her step. More than once she had to backtrack after hitting a dead end, the path blocked by complicated machinery or stacks of supplies. Glimpses of the commanders, as well as snatches of their heated conversation, led her in the right direction.

“It’ll be fine,” she heard Gabriel insist, patience noticeably gone. “Moira’s even tested this on herself, with no notable issues. You’ve seen how she can move.”

Angela was close enough now to see a flimsy table covered in specs and data, which neither man was paying any attention to. Jack’s coat and Gabriel’s hoodie had been thrown across the backs of fold-out chairs, likely a response to the stifling air of the hangar. Even their bulletproof chest gear had been divested. It was strange to see the two of them devoid of armored outerwear and gloves.

They looked younger, she thought, though you’d never mistake them for civilians. They carried themselves too tall, posture straightened by years of military service. Too many scars peppered their bare, muscular arms.

“We have no idea how those enhancements might interact with all that stuff they pumped into us,” Jack said, frowning.

He paced back and forth in front of the yet-unmarked hull of the ship. Standing a few feet away, Gabriel watched him with folded arms, tense.

“So, we’ll have Ziegler look into it. Think about this. With that level of mobility and stealth, I could save more lives, prevent casualties. It’d be so much easier to keep the shiny Overwatch reputation intact while performing those assassinations we technically don’t do.”

“Goddamnit Gabe, this isn’t about your job, it’s about _you_ ,” Jack barked, pulling off his eyepiece in exasperation.

“I didn’t get into this to stay safe and healthy,” Gabriel snapped. “Some of us have messier jobs than managing PR and going to conferences and making decisions from behind a desk.”

“Which is my point,” Jack said through gritted teeth, setting the eyepiece down on the table. “I already risk losing you to countless outside threats. I don’t want to add internal risks to the list of things to worry about.”

His gaze lingered on the fresh shrapnel scars dotting Gabriel’s face. Though Gabriel didn’t flinch, Angela’s gut twisted and she slowed to a stop behind a cargo container. Jack continued to argue his point, but she didn’t hear a word.

On their last mission, a sudden explosion scattered their squad and she hadn’t been able to return to Gabriel in time to heal the skin completely. More than anyone, she wanted for him and their other agents to have a higher chance of escaping harm, but she could not bring herself to endorse Moira’s work.

It stung that Gabriel had requested Moira be the go-to medic for Blackwatch operations from now on, but that wasn’t the only reason she begrudged the Irishwoman. Moira’s disregard for ethical standards and blasé attitude towards the outcome of her experiments on others struck Angela as barbaric. The fact that her collaboration with Overwatch had to be a highly-guarded secret was evidence enough that Moira ought to be treated with suspicion.

Angela was about to make her presence known to the commanders and offer her opinion on the matter. But then Gabriel stepped into Jack’s personal space and slammed a hand on either side of his head, trapping him against the drop-ship and effectively shutting him up.

“You’re getting worked up, Commander.” Gabriel’s voice was a low, amused growl.

Jack’s mouth flattened and his blue eyes narrowed into a glare. Gabriel gripped the side of Jack’s bare neck with one large hand, holding him in place and leaning in even closer.

“What exactly is it you’re worried about losing?”

“Gabe—”

Angela was not prepared to see him kiss Jack, hard, and she flung both hands over her mouth to swallow her surprised gasp.

Jack inhaled sharply through his nose and his eyelids drifted to half-mast, but otherwise his body was rigid, as though he was willing himself not to respond. However, it was clear Gabriel knew _exactly_ what he was doing. His other hand skimmed down Jack’s chest, thumb dragging slow, measured strokes over an already hardening nipple.

Jack’s resistance crumbled. The tension melted out of his broad shoulders and his mouth opened into Gabriel’s with a low moan. Eyes shut, he leaned into the grip on his neck. But the instant his hands landed on Gabriel’s hips, Gabriel abruptly pulled back.

“That?” Gabriel asked.

Winded and reeling from the kiss, Jack didn’t get a chance to form a response. He exhaled in a rush as Gabriel unceremoniously palmed the bulge in his pants.

“This?”

“Gabe…”

Finding his voice, Jack pushed at Gabriel’s chest, an attempt to hold him back that was more symbolic than effectual. Nevertheless, Gabriel paused. From her vantage point, Angela couldn’t see his expression, but however he was looking at Jack was making his already flushed face even redder.

“This doesn’t fix things,” Jack finally mumbled.

“You never minded it as a solution to arguments in the past,” Gabriel retorted, leisurely nudging a muscled thigh between Jack’s legs.

“That doesn’t mean this conversation is— Nn…”

“Is what?” Gabriel asked, innocent tone betrayed by the push of his hips, the stroke of his thumb up Jack’s jugular, the sure actions of the hand between their bodies.

“Is… Doesn’t mean I’m okay with Moira’s—”

Gabriel lifted his thigh a fraction, adding pressure from below to the lazy caresses over Jack’s hard-on. Jack clutched at the other man's waist and swallowed hard, trying in vain to continue his argument.

“…Goddamnit,” Jack sighed, eyes shutting as he ground forward. “How do you still manage to do this to me?”

 Gabriel’s smirk broadened into a predatory grin.

“Not difficult when you want my cock this badly.”

“Uh huh," Jack huffed with a pointed glance down. "Sure it’s not the other way around?”

Jack let out a stifled grunt as the hold on his neck tightened. This time, he caught Gabriel’s mouth eagerly, their lips slanting over one other’s. Jack broke the kiss as whatever Gabriel’s unseen hand was doing was rapidly elevating his breathing into panting.

Angela’s eyes widened as she heard the sound of a belt being unbuckled. Her surprise was echoed by Jack.

“Wait– Here?” He managed to gasp out. “Someone could–”

He cut himself off this time, gritting his teeth to suppress the yell that nearly tore out of him.

“There’s a rumor going around that I suck the Strike Commander’s dick for special treatment,” Gabriel rumbled, guttural. 

In the small space between them, his callused hand made rough movements, speeding up, slowing down, then speeding up again, until Jack’s grip was twisting Gabriel’s dark shirt helplessly.

"Shit shit shit," Jack breathed, head falling back.

“Wonder what they’d say if they knew how good you can be for me,” Gabriel growled.

“Uhn—” Jack groaned, lips parting, lost to the world.

Angela stood frozen in place, panicked, blindsided, mortified, unsure how she ended up in this situation and at a loss as to how to undo her intrusion.

A memory came to her unbidden: Jack’s last annual check-up.

As Head of Medical Research, it didn’t normally fall to her to do basic health checks on their agents but for security reasons, she personally saw to the highest ranking staff. There had been some peculiar marks on Jack — bruises on his neck and on his hips, as well as abrasions on his wrists. She’d questioned him, perplexed, as he hadn’t been in the field for a while. His reply had been evasive, some muttering about a brutal sparring session.

She had mentally thumbed through the roster of active agents, trying to pinpoint which of them were strong enough to leave bruises on an SEP soldier with their bare hands. Reinhardt and Winston were possibilities, but Reinhardt had been away on a mission for the past month and Winston never sparred if he could help it, preferred to observe and strategize. That left Reyes. The other SEP soldier.

“Well, tell Gabriel to go easier next time. He shouldn’t be taking his anger out on you.”

Above the press of her stethoscope, the back of Jack’s neck had flushed pink. She’d chocked it up to irritation that she’d guessed who had beaten him in a fight, but as Angela remembered that conversation now, a blush warmed her own cheeks.

The noises coming from the other side of the cargo container weren’t helping. She may have been a medical professional who knew every cranny of the human body, but she was a young woman too. She rested her forehead against the cool steel for a few seconds, feeling the rapid thud of her heart. It wasn’t just adrenaline. Heat curled in her loins. Her panties were damp from more than just sweat. She knew she’d be hearing Jack’s soft groans in her head that night as she lay in her bed, alone.

With a sigh, she thought that she’d have to relinquish that little crush she’d had on him since their introduction, when she was a wide-eyed 17-year-old. That had been the first time she’d stepped into these facilities. An exclusive invitation while she’d still been in university. It had changed the course of her career, of her life. It felt like it was yesterday and years ago at the same time.

She’d also have to reconsider her assessment of the tension that had been in the air since Jack’s promotion to Strike Commander. Right now, she was too muddled to determine if their fraternizing made things less likely to explode or more.

She crept back the way she’d come, desperate not to be heard. If she could cross the open stretch of well-lit space by the door without being seen, she’d be home free. Unfortunately, she was smack in the center of it when the door slammed open. The echo crashed through the cavernous hangar and Angela squeaked, knowing without turning around that Jack and Gabriel would have a clear line of sight to her blatant attempt at escape.

The man who entered was one of the doctors on her staff. He skidded to a stop and his shoulders slumped in palpable relief.

“Mercy!” he gasped, out of breath, failing to notice her bright red face.

“U-um. What is it?” She stuttered, voice unnaturally high, sure she could feel the commanders’ stares piercing her back.

“They told me to get you immediately. Emergency. A man’s been brought in. Japanese. Severely wounded, nearly dead.”

“Oh thank god,” she mumbled and followed the doctor out of the hangar at a run.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! More chapters to come!


	2. McCree / Tracer / Reinhardt

**Chapter 2**

**Tequila / Times Past / Comrades**

* * *

 

It was only Gabriel and Jesse that went out drinking after the debriefing.

Moira was more of a ‘whiskey on the rocks while reading a book’ woman. Genji’s yet to be completely stable medical status meant alcohol consumption needed to be careful and measured. And that was not how Gabriel and Jesse drank. They could put away bottles of hard liquor each by themselves on a bad day.

This was a bad day.

They hit a different bar every time, avoiding a pattern, in case anyone had ambitions to ambush them. They never chose a place in advance either. Usually they’d walk Zurich’s streets for up to an hour before settling on a bar, but they’d barely marched 10 minutes from HQ when Gabriel ducked inside a shabby hole in the wall. Feeling achy and tired, Jesse for once opted not to rib him on this shirking of protocol and slid onto the barstool next to him. This wasn’t the kind of joint that cared if you removed your hat, so neither of them bothered.

“Tequila. And make it the bottle,” Gabriel ordered.

This also wasn’t the kind of joint that raised an eyebrow at orders like that. The bartender just shrugged in acquiescence.

Jesse picked at the bowl of peanuts and glanced at his commander, who was staring stonily into space. His part of the debriefing had been breezy compared to the lengthy grilling they’d given Gabriel. From behind two-way glass, Jesse had watched Morrison, Amari and a freshly patched-up Gérard Lacroix loom over his seated form like a trio of hawks. Jesse had never been great with the delicate politics that hung over their missions like so many spiderwebs, but even he could gather that Gabriel’s impromptu assassination would have consequences. And that those consequences would ripple outwards.

Funny. He’d gotten the solution he’d originally wanted: a bullet to Antonio’s head. And yet he found himself as unnerved as a long-tailed pussycat in a room full of rocking chairs. That one-shot execution smacked far too much of how the Deadlocks handled things. It wasn’t how Blackwatch was meant to operate. And even though Jesse had bitched about the mission constraints, he still figured they’d made a plan and been given restrictions for a reason. He wouldn’t lie. He’d been furious with Gabriel, enough to holler at him the entire time they were shooting their way out of Venice. A man had to have rules.

But watching Gabriel grind through what was more of an interrogation than a debriefing had sapped some of the fire out of Jesse’s anger. Watching Gabriel knock back three shots of tequila in quick succession morphed that anger into concern.

“You doin’ alright, Boss?”

“No. And you’re behind.”

“Wouldn’t want that,” Jesse drawled, reaching for what would be the first of many tequila shots that night.

Several hours later, the dimly-lit bar was still full of patrons who looked as washed up as Jesse felt. The bottles on the shelves had started to line dance. Words seemed heavier, coming out of his mouth with their sounds dragging. And if he kept his eyes closed for more than a few seconds, the barstool tilted worryingly. He’d have a skull-shattering headache tomorrow, but right now he was in that drunk sweet spot, where it was impossible to care about anything beyond why the bartender kept serving them water they hadn’t ordered.

“S’Genji still have his dick?” He wondered aloud, words slurring.

“Hm?” Gabriel asked, jerked back from the precipice of sleep. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “Yeah… Think he does. Probably has to be careful and measured with those fluids too.”

Jesse laughed, too loud in the small space, while the commander examined his empty glass. Gabriel always could hold his liquor better than him, likely thanks to whatever enhancements the military slapped him with. He was a downright dignified drunk next to Jesse’s hooting, but this went beyond stoicism.

“C’mon, Gabriel, this ain’t like you. You can’t be having regrets over killing Antonio now.”

“Course I don’t. Mission’s over with.”

“So…”

“So.”

“So what’d we put away a bottle of tequila for?”

“Two bottles.”

“Two?”

“Forgotten how to count?”

Jesse frowned in concentration, sodden brain struggling to add up how many shots in a bottle.

“Don’t hurt yourself, kid,” Gabriel snickered.

“So whatcha need two tequilas for then?”

Gabriel let out a long exhale and sank forward to rest his chin on his folded arms.

“Well? Huh?” Jesse needled, prodding Gabriel’s shoulder.

“Knock it off.”

“Not til you talk. Was it the bedriefing? …Debriefing?”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Ah HAH, I’m right.”

Another aggrieved sigh from Gabriel, then a pause. When he at last began speaking, it was mostly to himself, and Jesse had to lean in to hear him over the noise of the bar.

“I do the real work of keeping the world safe, the messy part, and that’s fine because then he doesn’t have to, he’s free to inspire people to be better or whatever, like he always does. But then it’s… he forgets that negotiations and peace talks aren’t enough to fix things, forgets that the reason he can be that angelic, optimistic leader is because I’m getting blood on my hands. You can’t just be be good and reward those who do good. You have to punish those who do evil, too. Was easier, obviously, when the enemy was mostly omnics. They don’t bleed. But it’s more complicated now.”

“Didja say that in the be— debriefing?”

“Some of it. Hard to say it all when he sounds…angry…disappointed.”

That last word came out raspy and Gabriel chugged an entire glass of water in response, as though trying to banish the feeling tightening his throat.

“Wassit matter what Morrison thinks?” Jesse insisted.

Gabriel mumbled into his arms.

“What was that?” Jesse asked, tipping into Gabriel’s side and nearly knocking them both straight off their stools.

“ _Because I love him, you idiot_ ,” Gabriel snapped, shoving the cowboy off of him.

That sobered Jesse up faster than a splash of ice water. He blinked a few times, holding the bar top to steady himself.

“Uh. You… _What?_ Since when?”

“Like it matters anymore.”

“Does he know that?”

“Know what?”

“That you… love him?”

“He should. Sucked him off enough.”

Jesse stared at his commander for a few seconds. Then he began laughing. Not just laughing, but _snorting_ with laughter. He couldn’t help himself, had to stifle his guffaws with a gloved hand. Gabriel glared at his shaking form.

“Boss, if that counted as a declaration of love, I’d be married to half the Deadlock Gang.”

Now, it was Gabriel’s turn to reassess Jesse.

“Huh,” was all he said.

You’d think after a decade of knowing each other, Gabriel would have guessed, but Jesse knew his boss had long gotten into the habit of not prying into the private matters of those he worked with. When anyone could be transferred across the globe or killed in action, you kept a wall up to keep the hurt out.

Jesse didn’t buy this, of course. It had taken years for his cynical mistrust to melt into hope, but melt it had. Largely in part to Gabriel’s faith in him. These days, Jesse estimated the risk of permanent separation was an _incentive_ to get to know people. Because you never knew. Sometimes people stuck around.

“Never been in love, myself,” he found himself babbling. “But if movies have taught me anything, it’s that you need to say it to ‘em at some point.”

“Too late now. Gone too long without saying anything.”

Still hunched into his arms, Gabriel gave another heavy sigh. His whole being seemed weighed down, defeated. Jesse’s heart ached for him, this man he’d looked up to for so long.

“Gabriel…”

“We’ve… never been good at talking,” he continued, sounding hollow. “Never really were a couple, or did couple things. I mean, when would we have had the time? Our whole…thing… is that I just want to mess him up and he wants me to. Wanted. But it’s so stupid because I don’t want him to be actually messed up. I’m not immune to his golden boy optimism either. But today… I don’t know. We weren’t officially together so we can’t officially be over but… today felt like something broke, something that can’t be fixed.”

Jesse thought of a million things he could say and he knew every single one of them was useless. He laid a hand on Gabriel’s shoulder and squeezed, trying to put comfort and all his emotions into that small action. After a minute, Gabriel surreptitiously swiped across his eyes. He shook himself and sat up straight as best he could with that much alcohol in his system.

“So,” he said, clearing his throat. “You’ve never been in love? Strange for someone laying on the charm all the time.”

Jesse saw Gabriel’s change of topic for what it was, but he went along with it.

“Don’t get me wrong,” Jesse started, hand returning to grip his glass. “I’m happy to get to know an awful lot of people on a more personal level, but I figure I’m just not the fallin’-in-love type.”

“Yeah,” Gabriel snickered. “I thought the same thing. You just wait, kid. One day someone’s going to walk into your life and it’ll knock you flat on your ass.”

“Ehhh, don’t know about that.”

“Just promise me something.”

“Hm?”

“When you find that someone, don’t make these stupid mistakes, my stupid mistakes. Don’t let politics and impossible expectations crush things. Don’t let something like Overwatch come between you. Communicate and all that shit.”

“Sure… I’ll try, I guess… Heh, never thought I’d see the day when you’d be advisin’ me to talk.”

Gabriel let out a dry chuckle and slapped down the cash to pay their tab.

After the stifling bar, Jesse relished the cool night air and flung his arms wide, as though he’d be able to breathe more of it in that way. Dizziness was making him feel like a kid. The streets were noticeably quieter now, and he had to squelch the urge to blast music or empty buckets of paint over statues or conduct some other form of mischief. Sometimes Zurich was just too darn well-behaved a city for his liking.

Hearing Gabriel cough, Jesse looked over and was surprised to see him slipping into wraith form for a few seconds, his features blurring into smoke.

“Always thought hirin’ her was a mistake,” Jesse groused, stumbling to Gabriel’s side.

“Yeah,” Gabriel coughed out as he re-solidified. “Can’t say I haven’t thought the same thing occasionally.”

“Figured you’d be arguin’ in the lady’s favor,” Jesse said in surprise.

“A month ago maybe,” Gabriel replied after a long, deep breath. “These treatments of hers have been doing a number on me lately. Barely feel like myself some days. Don’t tell Jack that.”

“Still reckon you should talk to him,” Jesse said, affectionately colliding with Gabriel’s shoulder.

“Oh, McCree, if only you knew what talking with Jack leads to.”

“I reckon with him prettily bent over somethin’.”

“ _Watch it_ ,” Gabriel snapped. “He’s still your commanding officer.”

Startled, Jesse blinked and, with effort, straightened up and saluted.

“Yassir,” he slurred.

After a tense moment, Gabriel smirked.

“You’re not wrong about it being a pretty sight though.”

Caught off guard again, Jesse opened his mouth to reply.

“Commander,” interrupted a voice overlaid with a robotic filter.

Genji was standing mere feet away. With his red eyes glowing and the katana strapped to his back, he cut a severe and sober figure.

“Hey, it’s Genji,” Gabriel said, pointing unnecessarily.

For some reason, this cracked Jesse up. And that made Gabriel laugh. And then the two of them were doubled over in hysterics, gasping for air in the middle of the street while Genji looked on, unimpressed.

 

* * *

 

“Thank you, Oxton. That will be all.”

Lena saluted as Strike Commander Morrison tiredly turned back towards his desk. Her gaze lingered on the wall of screens. London burning down. Her London. A knot formed in her throat as she walked down the empty hallway back to the Training Facility.

The instant she blinked forward, a shrill beeping smashed through the quiet. She stumbled, and her attention snapped to the chronal accelerator just as the blue rings flickered and went out.

“She reminds me of you. All that eagerness to save the world,” said a voice.

Lena looked up, startled to discover she had recalled back into Morrison’s modest office. He was seated behind the desk, chin resting in thought on his folded hands.

“Oh gosh, sorry, sir!” she exclaimed. “I must’ve just—”

“She’s tougher than I was at that age,” Morrison replied.

“Sir?” Lena tried again.

Dread crept into her gut. He wasn’t talking to her. Commander Reyes was standing stiffly by her side. Too close. Way too close. Like he didn’t know she was there… Lena jerked backwards, anxiously cursing under her breath.

She’d been displaced again.

 _No, no, no,_ she thought, frantic. _I can’t be stuck. Not now. Not with London on the line. Okay. Keep calm. Breathe. The accelerator’s just out of juice from the spar. That has to be it. Remember what Winston said: stay put and wait for the accelerator to recharge from your body heat._

“Already told you I don’t have any other assets on the ground in London,” Reyes was saying. “If you’re sending a team in without authorization, it should be a Blackwatch operation.”

“No, if we’re going to go in, we’re going in in plain sight and in the Overwatch uniform. Anything underhanded will just bring more heat our way.”

Reyes clenched his fists and the temperature in the room plummeted. Lena was deeply uncomfortable with her unintended eavesdropping, but the door didn’t respond when she attempted to exit. The scanner couldn’t get a lock on her fingerprints.

“I haven’t eaten. I’m going to be starving during our meeting,” Jack said with a lighthearted laugh.

At the abrupt change in tone, Lena spun around but saw only darkness. She froze.

It was night. Just night. Nothing was wrong with her sight. Step by step, her eyes adjusted. The first thing she could make out were shards of glass glinting where the picture window had been. She gasped as she took in the scene. The sparse, clean office was now a blackened ruin. The desk appeared scorched. A cold breeze swept in, disturbing a few charred papers on the cracked floor. Sirens were screaming somewhere nearby. The air was filled with a sickening tang of gasoline and smoke.

When the hell was this?

Lena cautiously inched towards the smashed window, hoping for a clue as to what was happening. Her breath floated in front of her, a pale cloud. The stars glittered brilliantly, and something was moving on the ground below. Two people. Apparently injured. A third person now. Lena squinted through the dark, trying to make out their faces between the jagged glass barrier, and then suddenly the blinding noonday sun was pouring into the room.

With a yelp, she covered her eyes and hollered, “What the blazes is going on!?”

“There’s an apple in my bag you can have,” she heard Reyes growl behind her.

Tears blurring her vision, she peered around.

“Oh, bloody hell,” she moaned.

Morrison was kissing Reyes feverishly, walking him backwards towards the desk. Impatient hands coasted over his muscular shoulders to drag down his signature blue coat. Reyes’ black hoodie was yanked off with equal hunger. Both articles were flung away and wound up on on the floor. Reyes collided with the edge of the desk with brutal force but was too busy stripping the other man of his shirt to notice. There was the delicate clink of dog tags and then a throaty moan from Morrison as Reyes pressed open-mouthed kisses down his pale chest.

“Christ, Gabe,” Morrison breathed, eyes shutting for a few seconds.

With a gentle grip on Reyes’ chin, he pulled him up into another searing kiss, then crawled onto the desk, scattering the few items on it and pushing Reyes onto his back. Hands sliding over Morrison’s hips, Reyes hummed, happy and lustful, as Morrison settled on top of his groin.

Lena sidled around them, goggle-eyed.

 _Doubt they’d have noticed me even if I had actually been here. This must’ve been years ago,_ she deduced. Morrison was still blond. Reyes’ face was missing some of its scars. She’d never seen either of them look so… unburdened. Laughing into each other’s mouths between kisses. Cheerful sunshine spilling across their bodies. It made her a bit sad, if she was honest, how hardened war could make people.

Oof. _Hardened_ was not a word she needed in her head at the moment.

Morrison ground down and Reyes groaned, head tipping back to expose his throat column. When Morrison bowed to nip up his neck to his earlobe, Reyes thread his fingers through that blond hair to hold him there.

Lena pirouetted to face the door and her hands flew to the chronal accelerator, as though she could jiggle it back to life.

“Oh please,” she begged, falling into a fit of hysterics.

This was just _the_ most absurd nightmare scenario.

That’s when she felt it. A chip on the underside of the device. One of Genji’s shuriken must have clipped her during their spar. Normally, Winston would have caught this seconds into the routine post-training check-up, but the Strike Commander’s unexpected summons to his office had taken priority.

All of a sudden, she heard the most beautiful sound in the world: the whir of the chronal accelerator purring to life. Relief rushed through her as all systems came online.

“Yes!“ She whooped, jumping into the air.

She didn’t hesitate to launch herself through time. The two men blurred as their actions sped up at an inhuman rate. Ghostly figures swept in and around and out of the room. Both the wall of screens and the window seemed to fast-forward in a dizzying whirlwind of flashes and colors. She felt a pull, slight resistance, and then there it was, finally, the telltale feeling of correctness that came with slotting back into her proper time and place.

Here was the quiet hallway, exactly as she’d left it.

“Well, that just happened,” she muttered.

“What just happened?”

A girl was standing behind her, several folders in her arms. Lena stared at her for an embarrassingly long moment and then flushed. She was _gorgeous_. Freckles dappled her creamy skin and red hair tumbled over her shoulders.

“I’ve completely forgotten,” Lena laughed, turning to face her.

“Oh!” The girl said upon seeing chronal accelerator. “You’re Lena Oxton, right? I work in the UN’s London office and there’s always chatter about Overwatch developments, so I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“O-oh, erm, good things? I hope?”

“Mostly,” she said with a wink. “I’m Emily.”

 

* * *

 

Despite the gravity of their mission, Reinhardt was thrilled to be in his gleaming armor, heading to King’s Row, the very heart of the conflict. Having to stand by with their hands tied had been excruciating.

“It’s a pulse bomb,” Torbjörn was explaining to the rookie. “I designed it. Watch you don’t blow yourself up.”

His brusque sentences were punctuated with gestures from his mechanical arm. Cadet Oxton had a look of intense concentration on her face as she listened. She was so young, Reinhardt thought, barely older than his charming goddaughter.

“This will come in handy on future missions, assuming Overwatch has any after this escapade,” Torbjörn grumbled.

“If we’re successful at stopping Null Sector, there’s no way they’ll block us from helping in the future,” Lena insisted. “Right, Dr. Ziegler?”

“Tch,” Torbjörn spat. “Don’t underestimate how stupid people can be, especially bureaucrats.”

“I wish it were that simple, Lena,” Angela said, gloved hands twisting her staff. “But after Blackwatch was exposed in Venice, our reputation took quite a hit in the eyes of the international community. It will take time to rebuild that lost trust.”

“I say let Blackwatch take the fall and then dissolve it so that Overwatch can survive and keep doing good work,” Torbjörn declared.

“Ah, you know we could never betray our comrades in such a way!” Reinhardt cried.

“Jack won’t do that to Gabriel,” Angela added quietly.

Torbjörn hmphed again and stalked off towards the drop ship’s small bathroom.

“Speaking of the commander,” Reinhardt boomed. “It seems our little cadet has quite the influence on him. Careful not to become too smitten! His heart belongs to Overwatch.”

“Not my type,” Lena protested with a nervous laugh. Then she added under her breath, “Don’t think I’m much his type either.”

A puzzled frown settled on Reinhardt’s kind face. His bafflement grew when laughter burst out of Mercy.

“No, you’re unlikely to be,” the doctor agreed, eyes sparkling.

Lena’s eyebrows rose and she looked back and forth between the two of them.

“Wait,” she said. “Does everyone know the commanders are together?”

“Together?” Reinhardt boomed in surprise.

“U-um,” Angela stuttered, eyes wide.

“Oh,” Lena chirped in realization.

They both waited for Reinhardt’s reaction. They didn’t have to wait long.

“HA HA HA HA HA! Smashing! I should have known! I will be sure to congratulate them!”

“That… might not be the best idea,” Angela hurried to say. “In light of all that’s happened recently.”

“Right, right,” Reinhardt acquiesced with a broad smile. “I shall keep the secret with honor.”

Torbjörn returned to find an odd silence had settled over his three comrades.

“Did I miss something?”


	3. Ana / Winston

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oops, a plot happened.

**Chapter 3**

**Teatime / Footage**

* * *

 

The midday sun in Giza was merciless, beaming down from a blisteringly clear blue sky. But Ana and Jack kept up a brisk pace as they wove through the city streets. There was no reason to think that Talon wouldn’t be coming after them, even though Reaper — Gabriel — had vanished in apparent retreat into Hakim’s base of operations.

The beats of that fight weren’t adding up. Ana wasn’t sure exactly why but she couldn’t get away from that thought. Something about their altercation had been… off.

“In here,” she said, ducking into one of the bazaar’s stifling stalls.

Jack followed her lead without a word. They both knew this was her territory, a fact corroborated by the chubby stall owner’s nod of recognition. Racks of dusty clothes hemmed in the tight space. She peeled off her mask and gestured at Jack to do the same.

”Find a cloak or something. Cover up that jacket and pulse rifle.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

At his half-serious tone, a pang of nostalgia hit her like a bolt of electricity. For so many years, decades, they had worked alongside each other, navigated through excruciating boardroom discussions and blood-stained combat zones. And here they were again, everything and nothing the same. A pair of ghosts resurrected.

"Your injuries?" She inquired with a pointed look. 

"They'll be fine," Jack grunted. 

As the stall owner dug out a duffel bag from beneath his table, she inquired about his sons. He slapped his forehead and launched into a tirade about his youngest’s awful new girlfriend. Her hands nimbly disassembling the sniper rifle, she made sure to cluck sympathetically at the appropriate times, and also made sure to pay him double for the hooded cloak Jack pulled over his shoulders.

Ana swapped her outerwear for a less recognizable coat and slung the difference onto her back. She slipped on sunglasses in lieu of her eyepatch and, for the final touch of inconspicuousness, she slid her arm through Jack’s as they rejoined the bustling street. With that Indiana politeness he’d probably never shake off, he automatically crooked his elbow for her to hold. Now, they were just any old couple casually strolling through the Sunday market. It was as good as being invisible.

Although they walked at a far more relaxed pace, both were still tense with adrenaline, ready to snap into motion in a moment. Neither spoke, but it wasn’t until Jack coughed awkwardly that Ana realized it was more than just vigilance holding his tongue. Now that the action had died down, he wasn’t sure what to say. There was everything to talk about and no easy way to start.

“I know a small café where we can get rest and get some tea. We can talk there.”

He nodded and they continued in silence, periodically pretending to examine the wares on display. Her mind was still stuck on the same loop: the beats of the fight weren’t adding up. She went over them again, feeling for the cracks.

Perched on a ledge above the entryway to Hakim’s compound, there was her panic. She’d been sure she was about to watch Jack be executed. Reaper had materialized behind him, twin shotguns drawn, and... shot Jack in the lower back. First point of contention.

She landed her dart into Reaper’s shoulder, plus the boost into Jack. Then, instead of snatching up his pulse rifle, Jack… tackled a man known for being able to evaporate into smoke. Second point.

And then, once again, Reaper got the upper hand, slammed an armored fist into Jack’s ribs, downing him… and didn’t finish the job, instead teleported to Ana. Third point.

Fourth and final point: his retreat after she unmasked him, after that heart-stuttering confirmation that it really was Gabriel Reyes. His weary parting declaration came back to her: “He did this to me, Ana. They left me to become this thing. They left you to die. They left me to suffer. Never forget that…”

And yet, that didn’t align with what she’d seen.

As jaded as Jack had become near the end of his tenure as strike commander, he simply wasn’t the type to leave people behind. Not unless he was forced to, as Ana had forced him to leave her. And in spite of Reaper’s resentful assertion that that was exactly what Jack had done, twice he hadn’t put a bullet into Jack’s head when he’d had the chance. For someone so efficient at killing and so apparently hellbent on getting revenge on Overwatch, he wasn’t doing a particularly good job of it.

Both had to have been intentionally pulling their punches during their brawl, she concluded. Why though? Jack she could understand doing so, but Gabriel?

She nudged her companion around a corner. Life was lived low to the ground in this part of the city. The buildings were squat. Kitchens spilled out over the sidewalks. Steel pots had been set out to dry in the sun. The smell of roasting meat wafted through the dry air. The small café was down an alley, blessedly shaded and secluded.

They gave their orders to the bored teenaged waiter. Their tea arrived and still neither had spoken. At length, Jack asked in a soft voice: “What did Gabe — Reaper — look like under the mask?”

His eyes, fixed on his steaming cup, were full of deep, complex emotions. Regret. Hope. Sadness.

“To be honest,” she said, choosing her words with care. “I’m not sure. For an instant it was just his face, older and scarred, as we are, but still his. Except… paler, almost the color of ash in places, and his eyes seemed black and red. Red fissures appeared in his skin but it didn’t appear to simply be blood. And then he… dissolved.”

“Wraith form.”

“Yes, but not simply that. It was as though wearing his own face took effort.”

Jack was quiet as he processed this.

“When did you discover he was still alive?” She prompted, blowing on her cup of tea, interrupting the pillar of steam.

“I always knew it was a possibility. If I made it out, he could have. Hell, he probably had a higher chance of surviving than I did, considering Moira’s enhancements. Plus, one of the blasts sent him flying into Mercy’s lab.”

Ana straightened.

“You were near each other when…”

“The explosions at HQ occurred, yeah,” he said, wincing at the memory. “We’d been arguing. No surprise there. He said the only reason I was able to do what I did, be who I was, was because he shouldered the unpleasant stuff. I knew he was right but I was too angry at him and too damn proud to admit it. And then…” He let out a bone deep sigh. “As terrible as it sounds, part of me wanted him to be dead. I… thought it would be easier, for this to be done with.”

“This?”

“Us. Overwatch. The disrepair it had all fallen into.”

Her entire mind zoomed in on that one word with the scrutiny and speed of her rifle scope.

“…Us?”

“Uh. Yeah. Me and Gabe.”

“As in…?”

Genuine surprise crossed Jack’s face and, for a second, Ana saw him as he used to be, without the harsh scars, before the white hair, blue eyes shining with idealism.

“You… didn’t know? We just assumed you’d figured it out but didn’t say anything out of discretion.”

“Well, of course, I had _suspicions_ ,” she said defensively.

But the truth was she hadn’t. The physical affection glimpsed between them might have been evidence enough of homosexuality for an American observer, but close male friends in Egypt were similarly physical with no such implications.

Fareeha’s voice sang through her head: _Jack and Gabriel sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G._

How many years ago was that? Fareeha had been old enough that Ana could no longer swing her into her arms, but still young enough to sit on her lap. Ana remembered that she’d shushed her daughter’s silly song, giving it little thought. Even back then had Jack and Gabriel…?

For Ana, it was an odd (and embarrassing) moment to be sure, realizing two men she worked alongside for decades had kept something like that from her, and that for all her sharp sight, she hadn’t noticed. Sure, the three of them had been chronically exhausted and overworked since the moment they’d become a team, but still. Though the clues were there in hindsight, appearing like stars in the sky, at the time she had been so focused on her work and on Fareeha, trying to raise her to be strong but at the same time trying to keep her out of Overwatch.

At least now she had a pretty good idea as to why the beats of that fight weren’t adding up. It wasn’t just nostalgia tweaking Reaper’s aim and Jack’s tactical decisions. She doubted it was just lust either.

It took Ana a second to realize Jack had apologized. She vigorously waved it away.

“As though you owe anyone an apology for your personal life.”

“I’m not so sure.”

“Is that why you became Soldier: 76? To apologize?”

“You of all people know there’s great relief in being dead.”

“My convictions aren’t what they were,” she sighed, thinking of the letter she had written but yet to gather the nerve to send. “I’m not sure being a ghost is responsible anymore. The world is not in great shape.”

“Was it ever?” He retorted.

“That cynicism is new.”

“You weren’t there those last few months,” he said without hostility. “I was so embroiled in high wire PR and bureaucratic bullshit. Reinhardt had been forced out and Torbjörn left soon after that in understandable disgust. We’d already lost you. I’d already lost Gabe, too, in a way. I realized too late — far too late — that I hadn’t done right by him. I hadn’t done right by a lot of people, but him especially.”

He took a shaky breath as the past crashed over him. She knew with visceral intimacy how incidents from long ago could suddenly swallow the present and she waited patiently for him to gather himself and continue.

“After HQ went down, before I learned about Reaper, I… I don’t know. Without him, there didn’t seem to be any point in fighting for Overwatch. Guess I thought maybe I’d try Gabe’s style of justice.”

He gave her a wry smile and drained his cup, which was almost completely cooled. Much like her these days, he sounded like he wasn’t used to speaking for so long.

“It’s ridiculous, isn’t it? Even when I was intent on disappearing and letting Jack Morrison die, I wanted there to be a way for Gabe, if he survived, to know I was alive. 76 was my SEP designation. No one besides him left who would know that. I might as well have painted a damn target on my back.”

“I don’t think it’s ridiculous,” she said quietly.

If the inauthentic nature of their fight wasn’t proof enough they’d been — still were? — in love, this certainly was. Her thoughts again drifted to Fareeha and the difficult letter burning a hole in her bag. No ghost ever wanted to be truly dead. They wore clues on their backs and failed to kill their comrades and composed reverse-suicide notes.

Maybe it was time to finally buy some stamps.

 

* * *

 

Though he knew it was illogical and even irresponsible, Winston couldn’t help but feel giddy, like he was preparing for an enormous birthday party instead of reestablishing an illegal strike team to combat the second Omnic Crisis.

There was so much to do! The entire watchpoint needed to be aired out and cleaned. Agents’ arrival times and accommodations needed to be coordinated. Food and supplies needed to be ordered. A list of missions needed to be drawn up and prioritized.

It was exhilarating. It was overwhelming. It was—

“Winston, I have discovered something alarming.”

“What is it, Athena?”

“Although I was able to quarantine the virus Reaper used as a shield to hack my systems, it appears that some data was downloaded to a portable drive 37 minutes after Talon was recorded to have evacuated the premises.”

“What? That was 12 hours ago.”

He scrambled to his workstation as Athena displayed her findings across the monitors.

“Apologies, Winston. Because my systems were accessed by authorized personnel, my alarms were not activated. When I checked my logs, I found six similar instances have occurred since Overwatch disbanded and you became my sole administrator.”

“Authorized personnel?”

The six erroneous records expanded, the windows unfolding across the screen like playing cards. Five belonged to Strike Commander Morrison’s unique access code and the remaining one, the most recent one, was Commander Reyes’. Winston sat heavily, the spinning chair squeaking in protest.

“This is bad. Talon must have figured out their credentials and used them to log in. What did they do once they were in?”

“I’m sorry, Winston. The Commanders specifically instructed my system not to divulge those details.”

“Can’t their commands be ignored postmortem?”

“Yes. But as my system has a record of Reyes and Morrison logging in within the past year, I cannot consider them dead.”

Winston sighed and rubbed his eyes under his glasses. Here was one of the limits of AI. Lack of imagination.

“It is far more likely that Talon is using these accounts as a cover.”

“Yes,” she agreed amicably. “But until that can be proven, I must adhere to their commands. As of now, there is nothing suspicious about their login attempts.”

“Nothing suspicious? Except they’re _dead_.”

“As I recall, neither of their bodies was recovered. As such, the possibility exists that the individuals who logged in using these accounts were in fact Reyes and Morrison.”

Winston did not have the energy to enter a long, drawn-out battle of logic with the AI.

“Can you at least tell me what was downloaded during the most recent login? Surely, we can presume that that was Talon.”

“...Yes, I suppose I could do that. A portion of the agent database and an old mission log were downloaded. I should also note that the mission log was deleted afterwards, however I was able to recover it.“

Athena opened the folder as she spoke. It was titled and dated in the manner of all Overwatch missions, but instead of the usual collection of notes and agent reports and audio-visual logs, there was only the mission report saved as an unsearchable PDF and a video file that was non-standard format. As though both had been rendered intentionally difficult to locate on the network. Skimming the brief report, Winston asked Athena twice to check that this was all that had been in the original folder. Because the parameters of the mission were unlike any he had ever seen.

The assignment was a direct request from the United States military, but the specific division and the name of the requester had been scrubbed. Priority was set as high as possible. The only goals were reconnaissance and nonliving asset retrieval prior to the scheduled demolition of the target area. Likelihood of entering combat was extremely low. The only assigned agents were Morrison, Reyes and the dropship pilot. And it was dated two weeks before the attack on the Swiss headquarters.

What kind of mission required utmost discretion but also both the Strike Commander of Overwatch and the Commander of Blackwatch at a time when Winston was pretty sure they weren’t on speaking terms and the media were all over them? For such a unique event, the report was severely lacking details, merely stating that the objectives were achieved, no discovered assets were deemed valuable, and all personnel were accounted for.

Winston argued with Athena for five minutes before she agreed to download the third-party software required to view the footage. It then played with little fanfare. Both Reyes and Morrison had evidently been fitted with an eye piece, as the video was split between their two perspectives. It took Winston a moment to recognize Morrison. Instead of his trademark blue Overwatch gear, he was dressed almost identically to Reyes, an all-black ensemble underneath a few bulletproof pieces. Neither sported their organizations’ logos.

Much of the recording came as little surprise, at least in the beginning. Weapon and equipment checks. Disembarkation. A swift entry into what appeared to be an abandoned compound, overgrown with ivy and weeds. Professional but brusque status updates. A methodical, silent sweep through indoor and outdoor training facilities buried under layers of dust and grime.

As they approached an unmarked building, Morrison paused. There was an audible sigh.

“Gabe…”

“Don’t. I already told you. This isn’t going to be some stroll down memory lane.”

“Right,” Morrison spat. “You’re not feeling a single thing as we do this.”

“That’s right,” Reyes replied evenly. “A lot of memories here are worth letting go.”

 _The Soldier Enhancement Program,_  Winston realized, mouth full of a banana. _Of course. This all makes sense now._

Morrison glowered, blue eyes startlingly sharp in contrast to his dark outfit, before Reyes turned down the hall. Despite the antagonism thickening the air, as Morrison went the other direction, Reyes looked over his shoulder to watch him for a moment. If Winston didn’t know better, he’d have said Reyes was checking out Morrison’s backside.

Each wordlessly moved down the row of rooms, kicking open any locked doors, glancing into desk drawers and sweeping their flashlights under beds. This was evidently the soldier barracks, but between the cheap linoleum and scuffed twin beds, it more resembled a college dorm.

It was now Reyes who paused. Clearly visible in the late afternoon light, the door in front of him was marked: 24 / 76. Though he marched in in the same perfunctory manner as he’d entered the other rooms, his attention was caught and held by the bed against the left wall. He let out a long, controlled breath. In the time he spent conducting his inventory of this one room, Morrison completed three.

“Come here,” Reyes called down the hall.

Morrison took note of Reyes’ position and hesitated a beat before acquiescing. His gaze also lingered on the room’s left-side bed as he entered. It looked like all the others to Winston, a bare mattress on a solid metal frame, though the horizontal bar acting as a headboard was bent somewhat.

“Does something feel different about this room?” Reyes asked, a frown of concentration on his face.

“Besides that it was ours? Besides that it's where we first fu—” Morrison cut himself off and Reyes rolled his eyes.

“ _Yes, besides—_ ”

With a glare, Morrison gestured at both their eye pieces.

“ _—that_ ,” Reyes gritted out.

“WAIT,” Winston blurted aloud.

He rewound and watched that conversation again.

“Athena. Were Reyes and Morrison ever…romantically involved?”

“Yes.”

Winston blinked at the direct answer.

“Oh.”

“It is surprising you didn’t make this deduction earlier,” the AI continued, because apparently she’d had smugness programmed into her. “There is ample evidence across the network.”

Winston chewed pensively. The commanders had smelled like each other often enough back in the old days but he hadn’t thought anything of it since they were constantly working together and sparred exclusively with one another. He let the video continue from where it left off.

“ _Yes, besides that._ ”

If the atmosphere was antagonistic before, it was subarctic now. Reyes watched with folded arms as Morrison examined the small room. And then as Morrison examined it again, a frown slowly settling on his face.

“I’m right,” Reyes asserted. “Something _is_ different.”

It took 25 minutes to determine what it was and another 35 minutes to determine that it was indeed only their room that was affected. Eight panels, each about the size of a credit card and mere centimeters thick, had been masterfully concealed beneath the flooring and in electrical sockets. Reyes split one of them open on the desk and pinned the compact nest of microchips and tiny wires under his flashlight beam.

“This is Vishkar tech,” he said. “Looks like an earlier version of the sound wave manipulators they’ve been using in Rio.”

“What was it doing in our room 20+ years ago?” Morrison asked. He was sitting on the dusty mattress of the apparently-less-interesting bed and searching through reports on a small tablet. “There are no records of Vishkar partnering with the SEP — not that that means anything — but if Vishkar _was_ officially tapped to assist with conditioning us…”

“Why aren’t there devices in the other rooms too?” Reyes finished, sinking down next to Morrison with an aggravated sigh. “I don’t have to tell you I don’t like this. There’ve been whispers recently that Vishkar keeps some very disreputable company.”

“You mean Talon,” Morrison said, shutting off and stowing the tablet in his small pack.

“I mean Talon.”

Years in the future and thousands of miles away, Winston shivered.

The commanders appeared to sink into their own thoughts, as each of their video feeds rested on the other bed and far wall. The only sounds were bird calls trickling in from the window. After a few minutes, out of nowhere, Morrison started laughing.

“Sorry,” he chuckled. “Just remembering something.”

“Alright, spill it.”

“Just… when Jiaming was sneaking a cigarette and Michael smelled smoke and ran down the hall to the fire alarm—”

“Fell flat on his face before he got there,” Reyes injected, a smirk creeping over his face.

“Oh man, right. And then that _enormous_ spider was living in the alarm and Michael, completely losing it, wailing: ‘God has forsaken us!’”

A low laugh rumbled out of Reyes. “Dumbass had a rug burn on his forehead for a week.”

Keeping a loose hold on their firearms, they stood and each gave the room a final glance before navigating back outside. Neither made a move to pick up the Vishkar panels.

Winston frowned. There was no way that was an accident. That had to have been silently agreed upon somehow. Aside from the less antagonistic nature of the commanders’ interactions, the rest of the recording contained little of interest. Unsurprisingly, almost all of the SEP administration and R&D data appeared to have been destroyed long ago. Winston only half paid attention as they concluded their survey and returned to the dropship, preoccupied with the undeniable evidence that neither Morrison nor Reyes had reported their discovery. That, going by the obscure file types, they had indeed tried to conceal it entirely.

Questions buzzed around Winston’s head like a swarm of flies. Had Talon achieved whatever their objective had been in targeting only the commanders’ room? What did Talon need with an old video like that? Why bother retrieving and destroying evidence of this footage _now_ , years after both the SEP and Overwatch had fallen?

He shook his head, baffled. This required further research and analysis. But first there was Lena’s arrival in eight hours to prepare for. He’d need to be able to offer her more than peanut butter for dinner.


	4. Interlude: Jack

**Chapter 4**

**Interlude: Jack**

* * *

 

There are parts of every relationship no outsider sees.

Murmurs planted into the crook of a neck while everyone else sleeps. Bitter and childish fights in a locked bedroom. Hands meeting out of sight, unrecorded, the cameras affixed to their gazes angled to face a blank wall and vacant bed.

Jack’s right glove and Gabriel’s left were peeled off, so their fingertips could mark symbols into the canvases of each other’s palms. An old code. A silent discussion in a room dense with memories.

And if Jack protested the plan, it was only to make Gabriel trace his argument over his life and love lines one more time, to feel his world narrow down to that feathery, fleeting contact. To remember that dark evening, winter bludgeoning the windows, the air inside shockingly dry because of the shitty heating. They’d guzzled liters of water, spent the blip of free time until lights-out in boxers and tank tops, the floor freezing beneath their soles even as sweat slicked their armpits.

Gabriel lowered his bottle, bottom lip wet, a drop about to drop, and Jack hadn’t thought, had caught it before it could fall, chapped lips instantly soothed by the cool liquid, the temporary cold. A second passed, taut as garroting wire. Jack couldn’t regret this even if Gabriel didn’t feel the same way. His blue eyes began to drift back open in resignation.

Then a short groan broke the quiet. Jack thought it had been his at first, but it wasn’t, and Gabriel’s mouth opened, tongue scalding hot and sliding over his. Air became a lesser priority. Gabriel’s perfect large hands – how many times had Jack’s imagination trailed over those calloused fingers? – glided up Jack’s biceps to cradle his neck, fingers exquisite pressure below his ears, rough stars on his skin, tilting Jack’s head to lick deeper into him.

Gabriel’s dick thick and pulsing in his mouth, that first time, that first messy taste of him, stood out vivid and gorgeous in Jack’s memory, but Gabriel’s hands stood out just as vibrant. The strength and power and promise of them, the thumb dragging over Jack’s throat, the palms painting rough strokes over his flushed face, the compulsive clutch on his shoulders when Gabriel came, Jack’s name gasped into the dry air.

Jack had never been touched like that before.

Violence textured their days, pumped through their veins and thoughts, but when they curled into each other it drained out of them, despite reeking of plasma smoke or antiseptics. They could afford to be gentle with each other.

Even when Jack dragged a dent into the metal bar of his headboard, it was slow, Gabriel slick and rigid and rocking into him deeper, a hand splayed on his hip, heat stretching him and filling him, a low thrum of pleasure building and building before spilling over.

Lying on their sides, pelvises slotted together, they could just about fit on one of the beds, one humming laughter into the nape of the other’s neck as they cracked jokes about how every pair of soldiers added up to 100, ideal fodder for terrible pick-up lines. There was no Soldier: 50, so they pretended he was a ghost, a mythical perfect SEP candidate, a chimera the government was creating in secret.

One round of injections hit Jack harder than everyone else, a prickling and heavy weight in his stomach. His anxiety and fever were pressed into Gabriel’s broad chest. In the dark stillness of early morning, Gabriel murmured his fear that he was only good for this sort of thing, for violence and war, that he would never be more than that. And Jack planted desperate kisses over his entire body, trying to wring this poison out of his lover.

Then the war ended but the violence didn’t, and the United Nations decided the face of peace was Jack’s face and they offered Gabriel the shadows, fatally confirming this fear. Gabriel was an exceptional weapon and there were limits to his uses in peacetime. Jack’s heartsick, apple-sweet objections weren’t enough to convince Gabriel nor the world otherwise.

And at the same time, Jack couldn’t deny his hard-earned hope for the good he could do as Strike-Commander.

Peace was a fickle, gullible thing that threw itself parades when it wasn’t laying heavy on their shoulders. It was greedy, stole their energy and time, years of it. The violence and conflict that had been in the background, the spars and battles, inched its way into them, between them.

In dark corners and darker bedrooms, their nails and teeth left red crescents in the skies of their skin, already clouded by scars. Their dog tags clinked like shackles. Jack moaned whenever he was shoved to his knees, Gabriel’s thumb tugging his bottom lip, the grip in his hair merciless. Gabriel lashed his wrists together, forced his knees apart, made him beg, and he did, loudly, until his throat was as raw as their silences.

Compared to the Overwatch-funded king-sized beds they fucked in, the mattress they’d been gentle on seemed very small and thin.

There should have been an official inquisition into Vishkar’s meddling in the SEP, but Gabriel had long mastered working in the shadows and had a list of the vampires that would build this information into a scandal to shred what remained of Overwatch’s integrity. When Jack laughed into the abandoned room and its abandoned memories, Gabriel understood it to be coded acquiescence to his plan.

A hollow chamber of Jack’s heart just wanted them to agree on something again.

Soldier: 76, that poster-idol face beautifully ruined, often revisited this final, token scrap of amicability, swishing it around his mouth on long nights, another apple-sweet strand of acid, another decision he has no idea if he’s supposed to regret. The scales never settled.

He sacrificed Gabriel’s gentleness; he rebuilt cities. He substituted sex for communication; he lifted hundreds of thousands out of poverty. He never found the courage to tell Gabriel he loved him; he thwarted genocides. He recognized the calloused hands around his neck, Gabriel’s hands, bleeding smoke, and he fought them off. He recognized that Reaper existed not because Overwatch fell, but because Jack let him fall, when Jack let Gabriel literally dissolve into Blackwatch.

Jack loved selfishly. He wanted Gabriel in the shadows, where only Jack could find him. He wanted Gabriel hidden in his room, buried under kisses in his bed, away from the harsh light of Overwatch, politics, spotlights and camera flashes, the type of exposure that leached the color out of things.

And loving him this way, Jack knew he damned them both to the Reaper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait and the short chapter! 
> 
> "Rematch" came out of nowhere and demanded my energy, but now that it's wrapped up, I'm excited to get back into this fic. Next chapter: Shimadas!
> 
> Hugs, hugs, all the hugs for those leaving comments and kudos. It brightens my whole week!


	5. Genji / Hanzo / Brigitte

**Chapter 5**

**Sunset / Smoke / Gossip**

* * *

 

“You would think that it wouldn’t shock me so much, the resurrection of people supposedly dead,” Angela said with a self-deprecating shake of her head.

The setting sun made molten gold of her blonde hair, hauled into a messy ponytail. Her eyes, underscored by a swipe of lavender, were fixed on the Strait of Gibraltar glittering below.

“Perhaps. Though reviving the recently deceased is not quite the same,” Genji said, settling next to her on the cliffside.

She had shown him this overlook before, years ago, but he had been far too consumed with his pain and rage to let the sea soothe him. No longer flooded with that toxicity, he found he could let the simple joy fill his heart and mind. The view was beautiful. As was she.

“I suppose I have to blame you for starting this trend,” Angela teased.

His visor retracted with a soft mechanical sound, and he met her warm smile with his own. The salty breeze was cool and playful on his skin.

“It’s nice to see you smiling so much,” she murmured.

“It’s easy when you’re around.”

As usual, she ducked the compliment, immediately refocused the conversation on him.

“How are  _you_  doing? Learning of Reyes’…reincarnation must have been difficult. You were close with him.”

“I wasn’t close with anyone back then,” Genji corrected gently.

A memory swooped through his mind. A dark Zurich street. His Commander very drunk and lovesick, stumbling into smoke. McCree simply drunk and stumbling. The tail-end of a rather revealing conversation, a secret that Genji would have been thrilled to steal in his rowdy, misspent youth. But at that point, his body and soul in agony, gossip had meant nothing. What did he care who was fucking who? All he’d wanted to know was whose chest he could bury his katana in next.

“However, I will admit I am struggling to reconcile the Commander I knew with Reaper the mercenary,” he continued. “That is actually the reason I sought you out.”

“Oh?”

“Not that I don’t always enjoy your company!”

Amusement flitted across her face and she slipped her hand into his. He squeezed her fingers.

“I was speaking with Master Zenyatta about this and he encouraged me to follow my instincts. So, I did some research and—”

“There you two are!” Called a chipper voice.

They turned, squinting at Brigitte through the reflection of the syrupy sun in the goggles on her head. Though her long hair was damp from a recent shower, her hands and elbows already bore fresh smudges of engine grease. While Genji was genuinely fond of Brigitte’s candid positivity, he knew Angela found her perpetual enthusiasm a bit exhausting. Their hands reluctantly separated as they stood to meet her.

“Sorry to interrupt. Commander Morrison and Captain Amari—or, sorry, Soldier: 76 and Ana—have arrived. They’re with Winston in his lab. Weird day, huh?”

“They’re very early. Their message said 9pm,” Angela huffed. “Now, we’ll have to adjust the provisions set aside for dinner. Sometimes I’m not sure why I even bother creating schedules.”

Genji glanced at her before sliding his visor back into place.

It wasn’t like Angela to be caught up in trivial details. She was nervous, he realized, again grateful for Zenyatta-sensei’s lessons on observation. Genji’s patience had always been a fleeting creature, chasing every distraction Hanamura offered and then any possibility of violent purpose in Blackwatch. It sometimes disheartened him to realize how little he had observed in those around him up until recently. He wondered what else he had missed.

The reunion in the lab was suitably awkward, despite Lena and Reinhardt and Brigitte’s forced stream of jolly commentary.

“Welcome back,” was all Genji could think to say and it hardly seemed enough.

Masked, Morrison gave a short nod in response. He was quiet but not peaceful, his posture rigid as he half-listened to Winston rattle off logistics. Lena openly stole worried glances at him.

Ana was gracious albeit preoccupied, which she would likely continue to be until Fareeha’s arrival the following day.

Genji glanced at the luminous orange schematic of the base and noted his brother was in the shooting range again. Perhaps Hanzo could be convinced to speak with Fareeha. Though he had so far been as reticent and standoffish as ever, if anyone would understand the tumult that she was feeling, he would.

Standing apart from the group, Jesse had his hat low on his head and his arms crossed. The prosthetic caught Genji off-guard every time he saw it. Their eyes met, their thoughts on similar tracks: this should have been Reyes’ reunion, too. It was evident from Jesse’s hard gaze and almost sulky body language that he held Morrison responsible for the inexplicably grim reincarnation of their Commander.

It had taken Genji days to persuade Jesse to return to Overwatch, that a revived iteration of the organization could and would be different than the original. The reappearance of not one but all three of its leaders put a bit of a dent in that argument.

But Genji reached for the kernel of peace in his chest, let it spread through him, soft as a chant on the breeze. He would reserve judgement for now.

Angela’s nervousness manifested in uncharacteristically curt sentences. At length, Winston, Reinhardt and Lena escaped to prepare dinner. Ana murmured to Jesse in low tones and his posture softened slightly, but the rest of the group’s conversation evaporated until it was only Brigitte babbling on. It always fascinated Genji how uncomfortable Westerners were with silence.

“Alright, say it! Say what you want to say,” Angela snapped at Morrison, cutting Brigitte off and arresting Jesse and Ana’s attention.

Genji started at Angela’s tone. He’d never heard her sound this frazzled before.

This was a doctor who had flown into firefights and performed triage with bullets flying over her head. This was the woman who had rebuilt Genji’s dismembered body and coaxed his mind back to reality even as he screamed at her to let him die.

For a moment, the blank wall of Soldier: 76 didn’t respond.

“Nice comments at the UN committee hearing,” he finally growled, sarcasm emphasized by his roughened voice.

“Jack...” Ana began.

“People extrapolated a great deal out of my statement,” Angela said, flushed but unapologetic.

“You said that after my promotion to Strike Commander, my relationship with Reyes changed, that the tension became more pronounced as time went on, that sometimes when the closest bonds break, all you can do is stay out of the cross fire.”

His tone was controlled but barely. Ice underlined every word.

“Was I wrong?” She hissed. “Look at how things ended!”

“You think Gabriel planted those charges, that he intended to kill me.”

“I know it’s painful to believe, but yes, all evidence suggests that.”

Jesse’s shoulders rose, visibly tensing. Ana remained unmoving and watchful, the way only snipers could. She would have made a terrifying Blackwatch agent.

“Oh!” Brigitte blurted out, her energy in disarray, her eyes flying between all of them. “You don’t kn— Does nobody know? Oh. Okay. Hang on. There’s something— I need to get Lena.”

No one paid her any attention as she raced out of the lab, her ponytail flying behind her and her tool belt clanking.

“Well, your comments all but guaranteed everyone else believes that too,” Morrison bit out.

Genji’s temper flared, along with a strong urge to defend Angela, her character and her actions. But he respected her enough not to. Blonde and pacifistic, she had been treated like a damsel in distress her entire life and despised it. She was more than capable of handling herself in difficult situations. As compelled as Genji was to shield her from any and all harm, she didn’t need nor want him to save her.

“He led a coup against you. That is a fact,” she declared. “A coup that entailed numerous counts of physical violence before the explosives went off.”

“Gabe… wanted to run things differently, yes, and yes, things were bad. But he wasn’t so far gone as to bring down a building full of hundreds of people. Coups for leadership don’t work if you murder everyone in the organization you want to lead.”

“I can’t believe you think you have the right to be self-righteous. You ran away. We were the ones who had to clean up your mess.”

“Exactly,” Morrison growled. “My mess. Not Gabriel’s.”

“It was both of yours and you know it.”

A flicker of awareness rippled through the group, all of them surreptitiously glancing at each other.

Ah, Genji concluded, we all know then.

“And it’s not like you can deny Reaper’s track record,” Angela continued, eyes flashing. “I know it’s unpopular to point out, but Gabriel Reyes is a terrorist.”

“He did not bomb HQ,” Jesse objected, speaking out for the first time. “He wouldn’t.”

“Don’t you think I wish that were the case?” Angela responded. “But Reaper has actively targeted and assassinated former Overwatch agents. He’s made it very clear that he has a grudge against us and everything we stand for.”

Genji’s eyes returned to Hanzo’s glowing orange avatar.

He again smelled incense and sakura blossoms, felt the heft of his sword in his palm, its blade kissing his brother’s jugular.  _Do it then. Kill me._  Genji knew the taste of violent betrayal intimately, the flood of spite it released, a typhoon crushing everything in its path, including your own soul. If revenge was what Reyes was after, pursuing it to the end would destroy him.

“While that is true,” Ana inserted, voice clear as a bell despite her age. “We had a recent altercation with him that makes me believe he’s holding himself back. He had opportunities to kill both J— Soldier: 76 and myself; he didn’t take them.”

Jesse chewed the inside of his cheek. Angela looked sad.

Genji’s recent research findings burned through his thoughts.

He also knew how stubborn hope was. Even at his lowest, darkest hour, writhing under the agony of the knowledge that his own brother had slaughtered him, a tiny fragmented part of him still craved proof he was mistaken, that his betrayer was somehow innocent. Reyes may not be lost yet.

“May I say something?” He asked.

 

* * *

 

As the auburn-haired girl stomped and clanked her way down the hall, Hanzo swiftly slipped through an open doorway, relieved when he avoided her detection.

His brother’s voice, achingly familiar even with the robotic overlay, drifted out from Winston’s enormous lab.

“—discovered that the mercenary Reaper was first sighted years before Reyes supposedly died in HQ.”

Hanzo had little interest in engaging with the recently-arrived individuals, but it would be prudent to assess their capabilities in case one became a threat in the future. And he was curious as to why his brother would take an interest in this. He slipped into the lab unnoticed.

“That is… disheartening to hear,” said an old woman who Hanzo took to be Ana Amari. “I had hoped to attribute the changes in his demeanor to Talon’s meddling, as in Amélie’s case.”

“Well, we may still be able to do that,” Genji rushed to say. “Do you know when the Reaper first appeared?”

Nobody responded, but they all watched, rapt, as Genji summoned an old news piece on the holoscreen. It floated ghostly above the workspace.

“Less than a month after Moira began the genetic modifications on him,” he finished. “Her affiliation with Talon only came to light recently, but is it not possible that she was assisting them even then?”

Hanzo did not know who Moira was but he noted that Dr. Ziegler’s lips tightened at the mention of her. Her every muscle was tense.

He assessed the impact of this information on the rest of the group. It clearly changed something for Ana and Soldier: 76, who exchanged a long look. The cowboy’s body language loosened, as though in minor relief. With a deft movement, he placed a cigar between his lips and lit it. The tip flared bright and his eyes flicked to Hanzo’s.

Hanzo blinked and refocused on the conversation, irritated he’d become distracted. Soldier: 76 was recounting his and Reyes’ discovery of Vishkar’s behavior-modifying soundwave technology planted in their room at— ah, the soldier’s mask hid Strike Commander Morrison, Hanzo realized. He recalibrated his assessment of the man’s potential as a threat as he recalled the endlessly replayed footage from the Omnic Crisis, in particular the clip of Morrison tearing off a Bastion’s head with his bare hands.

“It would be impossible for Talon to plant Vishkar tech at every site Reyes killed someone at. I’m sorry, but I don’t think he can be rehabilitated after the amount of blood he has spilled,” Dr. Ziegler said, voice laden with genuine regret.

“Hanzo,” Genji called. “You appear to have something you want to say.”

The group’s attention swiveled to him and Hanzo scowled. As though it was his job to lead others to answers that didn’t concern him. But, he counseled himself with a breath, if it was what Genji wished…

“Reaper’s mask. Vishkar would have little trouble embedding their technology in it. They wouldn’t need to implant much, since it’s so close to the neural receptors.”

“If Hanzo is correct, is there not a chance we could remove the mask and return Reyes to himself?” Genji suggested to the gathered group.

“However,” Hanzo interjected, though he was loath to quash Genji’s hopes. He took care to keep his voice steady. “Is there a reason not to assume that Reyes has chosen this path of his own accord? It is difficult to believe betrayal when it happens. I am sure… I am sure Genji wished there to be a reason I killed him other than the truth, which is that I decided to of my own free will.”

Silence dropped like a lead curtain. Genji went to reply but McCree beat him to it.

“From what I heard, didn’t sound like it was of your own free will. Had a lot of the higher-ups puttin’ you in a tight place.”

“That isn’t brainwashing,” Hanzo countered.

“Nah, it’s worse. It’s self-doubt.”

“You know nothing,” Hanzo bit out, avoiding the unbearable softness in Genji’s disposition as he walked out of the lab.

The sun had set. Evening coiled around the watchpoint in shades of purple. He scaled the side of the building, still warm from the day, and settled in  _seiza_  on the metal catwalk. The noise of the surf drifted up from below. Nearly an hour passed in meditation. He struggled against the cold dark lapping at his mind, the rising tide held back by Genji’s still preposterous forgiveness.

The mountain he needed to climb to redeem himself was enormous, the summit impossible to see. He was not here to follow any other threads of interest or emotion. His life was in his brother’s hands. The idea of doing anything for himself was unfathomable.

And yet.

To his shame, here he was, trying to convince himself he wasn’t eager to be interrupted.

Wisps of cigar smoke on the wind sent something warm and light unfurling in Hanzo’s gut, a feeling so free of pain that it was jarring. He swallowed, his throat dry. 46 minutes. A new record. It was the longest he’d been able to meditate before McCree emerged from thin air with that surprising stealth of his.

After a few minutes of silence, McCree scuffed his foot.

“Think I get you a little bit more now,” he said quietly. “Finding out a loved one you thought died is actually still alive. Kinda throws your whole grip on reality for a loop.”

Hanzo opened his eyes.

“I know it ain’t the exact same. But I mean, at least Genji’s on your side. Reyes… Gabe was the closest thing I had to a father. Now, he’s supposed to be the enemy, like some sort of shit divorce and I’m stuck with the parent I liked the least.”

“…Commanders Morrison and Reyes?”

“Yeah.”

McCree exhaled a plume of smoke with more force than necessary and Hanzo again recalibrated his assessment of Soldier: 76. A romantic interest, even a former one, was a vulnerability worth noting, particularly in a potential threat with so few weak points.

“I presume they weren’t actually married.”

“Tch, no. Oughta been. Woulda done Gabe a world of good. But what do I know? You missed Lena’s tale. Just added to the confusion, in my opinion. Ana’s the only one I’m 100% glad is alive, if I’m bein’ honest. Wasn’t what I’d call maternal, but she was always watching my back.”

“If I’m right about Reaper’s mask, you may still be able to reunite with Reyes.”

McCree gave him a surprised look and Hanzo felt his face heat up, as though he was an infatuated schoolgirl.

“Is Hanzo Shimada secretly an optimist?” McCree teased, smile on his face.

“Hmph,” Hanzo sniffed.

But the corner of his lips quirked up as well.

  

* * *

 

Clad in an apron and oven mitts severely out of place in Winston’s lab, Lena gaped at Brigitte, bug-eyed.

“Well, go on,” Brigitte prodded.

If she could wrangle her cat into the suit of armor she’d made for it, she could convince the Brit to talk. Lena’s gaze zipped from Ana to Angela to Genji to McCree. When they landed on Soldier: 76, her face exploded into a blush.

“I’m recalling,” Lena said, oven mitts flying to her chronal accelerator.

“No!” Brigitte cried, grabbing her wrists. “I’m serious. I think it’ll really help them to know. If we can help Commander Reyes be free of Talon, isn’t it worth it? And it’s not like you have to tell them that you saw Reyes and Morrison—”

“ALRIGHT!” Lena yelped, flailing the oven mitts at the younger girl’s face.

Brigitte grinned in triumph.

“Right. Alright,” Lena stuttered, face red as a tomato. “Erm, I accidentally recalled just before the London Uprising, when I was in your— um, Commander Morrison’s office, and sort of accidentally saw a couple incidents in the past, but I figure I must also have gone into the future once or twice because I saw… I saw the office after the bombs, all black and destroyed.”

Lena’s expression grew somber. She had everyone’s rapt attention. At least, Brigitte  _assumed_  Genji and Soldier: 76 were paying close attention. Their body language suggested as much. Brigitte didn’t understand why someone would keep a literal mask on in the company of friends.

Honestly. Brigitte huffed to herself. Overwatch hadn’t even fully gotten back on its feet and personal politics were already dragging it down.

“The window was smashed,” Lena was saying. “I looked outside, and I’m fairly certain I saw Commander Reyes drag Commander Morrison’s body out of the building.”

Soldier: 76 jerked in surprise, his fingers tightening convulsively around his upper arms. Angela gasped, hand flying to her mouth. Ana and McCree glanced at each other.

“How certain is fairly certain?” Genji asked eagerly.

“Almost 100%? I didn’t recognize the three people when I first saw it, because you— because Morrison was older and his, erm, face was a bit sliced up. I’d no clue whether he was dead or not.”

“There was a third person?” Ana prompted.

“Moira. I hadn’t known who she was back then either, you see. It looked like she was convincing Reyes to come with her and I think he did.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the long wait! "Rematch" kept launching plot bunnies at my head with a bazooka so apparently I'm not done with it yet. I'm still fully committed to finishing this story too though.
> 
> Thanks again to everyone leaving comments and kudos! It really means the world to me.
> 
> ヽ(*＾ω＾*)ﾉ


	6. Moira / Zarya / Junkrat & Roadhog

**Chapter 6**

**Ice / Good Fortune / Audience**

* * *

 

“Goodness, Morrison. The _state_ of you.”

Compared to Moira, in her resplendent ministerial robes surrounded by top-of-the-line lab equipment, the former strike commander appeared very weary and shabby. His garish jacket bore battle scars, plasma burns and bullet holes. Angela didn’t look much better, though at least her clothes were in better shape.

Their arrival in Oasis had been a surprise, though not entirely unprecedented. 

Moira responded to their stony expressions with a smile made eerie by the tempered blue lighting of the labs. A pair of bots scanned a viscous black material held in a zero-gravity field. The vicious heat of the outdoors was nonexistent in this cool, temperature-controlled hall. Aside from a pair of scientists hissing to each other in front of a monitor in the far corner, they were alone.

“Will you be making me guess why you’re here?” She asked, leaning against the cluttered desk with her arms folded.

“While we should be court martialing you, we need information on Gabriel Reyes,” Angela stated. “We intend to rehabilitate him.”

“I thought you’d already concluded that he caused the explosion,” she responded, an amused lilt to her voice. “Strange you’d be so eager to lend him a helping hand now.”

“We know you’re working with Talon, that you’re still trying to find a way to stabilize Gabe’s condition,” Morrison asserted, gruff tone carrying easily through his mask. “From the looks of it, you’re either deliberately botching your progress or you’re not doing very well.”

“These things take time,” Moira replied evenly.

“What if you had help?” Angela put forth.

Moira blinked in genuine surprise. “I beg your pardon?”

“It was our combined technology that made Gabriel the way he is. Your research into converting others’ lifeforce into one’s own. My resurrection capabilities. It will likely take the two of us to rectify his condition.”

“Altruism isn’t exactly the name of my game,” Moira drawled. “Talon has a vested interest in keeping Reaper reliant on them and I’m paid quite well to make that happen.”

“Well, if you don’t think you can do it...” Angela said with an exaggerated sigh.

“You’re baiting me,” Moira stated flatly.

Angela smiled, half-sugar and half-poison.

“It’s working. If you don’t help me now, you will never have another chance to see my work up close.”

“Are you quite certain of that?”

“You think the research you stole from me six years ago was all there was?”

Moira narrowed her mismatched eyes, fascinated at the changes in Angela Ziegler’s demeanor. The young woman in front of her was no longer the idealistic doctor she’d known in Overwatch. That person would never have made a deal with the likes of Moira. Was that a tinge of guilt in her angelic composure?

“There are other complications,” Moira said at last. “It’s not merely a matter of stabilizing Reyes’ cells.”

“We know Talon is using Reaper’s mask to influence his behavior,” Morrison stated.

“My, you _have_ been busy. Then you also know he isn’t going to go with you quietly.”

“We’ll burn that bridge when we come to it,” Morrison said.

“Grand so. Should you somehow manage to remove Reyes’ mask and abduct him from under Talon’s nose, I’ll pay you a visit. Though I must say, you seem fiercely committed to retrieving someone who led a coup against you,” Moira mused, examining him.

“You know Gabriel carried Jack to safety after the explosion,” Angela asserted. “Those aren’t the actions of someone who intended to harm him.”

“Oh, that _was_ a shock, all right,” she chuckled. “He had some excuse about wanting to kill you personally at a later point. The council was sour as could be over it.”

Moira recalled the icy mountain winds slicing into her at the rendezvous point, the night sky twinkling merrily above as though mocking her vexation at Gabriel’s tardiness. When he stumbled from the blasted building with Morrison in a fireman’s carry, Moira was intrigued by the limits of Vishkar’s mental conditioning.

Of course, she hadn’t been fool enough to accept Gabriel’s rationale, but it mattered little to her goals whether Morrison perished inside or perished out in the snow. And if he somehow survived, well, one gathered more data from living subjects, after all.

It was only when they reached Talon’s outpost in Venice that it became clear Gabriel’s physical state had been destabilized. That crash through Angela’s lab had altered the bond between his cells and Moira’s nanites.

“Why _would_ he save you in spite of all their conditioning?” Moira mused, tapping a long fingernail against her cheek.

Morrison didn’t respond. Thanks to the visor and mask, it was impossible to deduce anything from his expression. Angela’s emotions, on the other hand, were plain to see. She bit her lip and gazed at the former commander with the air of a romantic watching the last act of _Romeo and Juliet_.

“Ah. More than friends, then. Good to have that hypothesis officially confirmed. I must say, Morrison, did you not consider the strain keeping things a secret was having on Gabriel?”

Angela opened her mouth to snap out something, but Morrison spoke first.

“It could have been either of us who became Reaper, couldn’t it?”

A smirk crawled over Moira’s face.

“Of course,” she confirmed. “You were both subjected to Vishkar’s conditioning. However, only Gabriel agreed to undergo my enhancements, which made him a more valuable asset. A more manipulatable one as well. I could put you through the same treatment and you’d be more or less in the same position. Soldiers’ minds are such easy things to toy with. All that predilection for following orders. It would be _fascinating_ to see how you would take to it.”

A low laugh escaped Morrison, as dangerous and sharp as steel. He turned his back towards her as he made his way to the door, giving her an eyeful of the pulse rifle slung over his back. Angela made to follow him.

“Be prepared to fly to Gibraltar by the end of the next week,” he said in lieu of a goodbye.

 

* * *

 

“I’m very excited you’re coming with me,” Dr. Zhou said for the umpteenth time, fidgeting with her drone in her lap. “I’m sorry I wasn’t able to be more help before.”

“It is no problem, Dr. Zhou. It will be good for the RDF to understand what this new iteration of Overwatch is capable of. Overwatch was crucial for helping my country survive the first Omnic Crisis. And now…”

Her voice trailed off, swallowed by the thrum of the engines. Although the cabins of budget transport ships were notoriously chilly, the two of them were comfortable in sleeveless shirts. The continent of Europe slid by below, hidden by banks of clouds.

“It must be very difficult for you, to see your home in such danger again,” Dr. Zhou murmured empathetically. “Oh, um, you can call me Mei, by the way, if you want to.”

“Then you must call me Zarya.”

They had met quite by chance in Lijiang Tower’s gardens several weeks ago. Hunting for Sombra, Zarya had been pulling her hair out at yet another lead going dry from yet another high-level executive denying they’d ever been hacked.

But she wasn’t so focused on her mission to ignore the chubby-cheeked woman bawling her eyes out on a park bench.

When Zarya asked what was wrong, she had not been expecting a tragic tale of frozen colleagues, 9 years lost in cryosleep, friends and family accepting her as dead and moving on in their lives, and now on top of it all, members of the Chinese scientific community were refusing to accept her research on climate change because it was “bad for business.” People didn’t want to hear about this source of catastrophe when they already had the reawakening omniums to panic about.

Zarya had coaxed her to the nearby market and bought her lunch. Bowls of noodles and cheap beer managed to lift the poor scientist’s spirits somewhat. Mei had been fascinated by Zarya’s mission to find the infamous hacker and mournful that she couldn’t be of any help in the search. Then she’d mentioned, though it was quite a secret still, that a few former members of Overwatch were congregating at Watchpoint: Gibraltar to see about doing something, anything, to help the burgeoning global crisis. Their resources might be able to help Zarya if she truly found herself at a loose end.

They traded contact information. And when Mei sent a message asking if she would like to accompany her to Gibraltar, she agreed. Though Zarya had already located Sombra and nullified the threat she posed to Katya Volskaya, her heart was filled with shining images of the heroes of her childhood while her mind dreamed of robust reinforcements for the Russian Defense Forces.

But as she navigated the rental hovercycle towards the decrepit and quiet Watchpoint, Zarya began to have doubts. What resources could such a ragtag operation really offer her troops? Perhaps this was all a waste of time.

Already itching with the heat, Zarya observed from the sidelines as Mei was embraced with genuine delight by Dr. Ziegler and Winston, both of whom Mei had talked about effusively over the course of their journey.

“Sergeant Zaryanova!” Boomed a deep voice with a German accent.

Zarya turned and, for once, didn’t have to look down to meet the speaker’s eyes. In fact, she had to look slightly up. A mammoth of a man approached her, his demeanor jolly despite the scars on his face and shoulders.

“I have heard great things about your strength and courage,” he said warmly.

“Are you Reinhardt Wilhelm?” She asked, shaking his broad hand with a hint of awe.

“I am!”

“Then the stories of your strength and courage far outnumber mine,” she said with a laugh.

As with Mei, their friendship bloomed quickly and over a few drinks. They had a lively discussion of workout routines and traded war stories as they gazed out over the sea from one of the observation decks.

“Why do all the agents seem to be so tense?” Zarya asked, pouring more vodka into each of their cups.

“We received word today that a young lady, a Vishkar architech, is willing to defect and deliver critical information to us if we can guarantee her safety from her employers. We are still discussing whether to trust her or not, and as you can see, people have been quarreling.”

“Is that all?” She asked, unimpressed.

“Well… There is also an upcoming mission that will be logistically complicated and which is… quite personal for some of our agents.”

“Oh? What is the objective?”

“Ah, my friend, it is a mission for love and glory,” Reinhardt declared with a hand over his heart. “An attempt to reunite soldiers torn apart by outside forces, Jack and Gabriel.”

“…You are not talking about Commanders Morrison and Reyes?”

“I am!”

“You are mad, old man. They’re dead.”

“Men of honor never die!” He boomed. “But, also, like, actually, they’re not dead.”

“Uh. What?”

He explained in winding, flowery detail the saga of Jack and Gabriel, a tale of adventure and bravery and betrayal. Zarya let him wax on, enjoying the theatrics, while tallying up the key points of importance in the back of her mind. Morrison and Reyes were legends she was raised on, supermen that saved the world. That they survived Overwatch’s dismal end struck her as markedly appropriate. That they loved each other humanized them more than their deaths ever could.

“Ah, but we are having difficulty determining the best way to incapacitate Reyes without harming him and without allowing him to wraith away.”

Zarya raised an eyebrow and gave him a broad grin.

“I believe I can be of assistance.”

 

* * *

 

“Stop me if you’d heard this one before: a cowboy and two ninjas walk into a— no, no, wait, a dwarf and a giant walk into a— Oy, look, look, teleporter’s gotten granny sniper onto the roof. What a brawl! That skinny sheila keeps hop-skipping around, givin’ me a headache as much as she’s givin’ one to that purple porn star. Swish looking bombs she’s got though. Ouch, that thump to the head had to hurt, eh? Wait? That’s it? Blow like that shoulda knocked the living daylights out of him! Yep, knew it. The old man’s visor’s broken. M’not dead, right? You’re seeing angels too? Angels with rockets! And lookit her with the pink hair! This is too good, I must be dead. We’ve any more snacks, Roadie? Wot the blazes is a toblesteen? Ooooh, graviton’s gone and caught Mr. 76 with the Grim Reaper. Whazzee gonna do now? …Pullin’ his mask off? Bit of a catfighty thing to do, ain’t that? Nah, smoking ain’t gonna get you out of that, mate. That’s right, ghosty, shoot him, shoot him! Those big shotguns can’t be just decoratio— … _Ohhhhh_ , didn’t _realize_ we were watching a romance. Thought this was an action flick. HAHAHAHAHA! D’ja see that? Grandma’s put Grim straight to sleep. Scary old bat.”

Mako finished his beer and casually crushed the can against his forehead, tossing the thin disk onto the pile behind him. Was leagues better than the shit in Junkertown. The vibe in Dorado wasn’t terrible either, especially now that their pockets were full.

From their perch on the mission’s roof, he watched as the remaining Talon operatives were rounded up and subdued with relative ease. Their sniper hightailed it out of sight with a flick of her hook shot, which didn’t say much for Talon loyalty. Several Overwatch agents buzzed around the two men who’d crumpled to the floor as the graviton surge dissipated. Both were unconscious, potentially dead, one from the old lady’s dart, the other from the shotgun blast to his stomach.

The wound looked lethal but 76 had been shaking off seemingly-fatal wounds for the entirety of the fight, so what did Mako know?

His companion, who had been zinging about like an electrified rodent as he commentated, had settled into a cross-legged position and was gripping his chin, his dirty face screwed up in thought.

“I give it a… three.”

Mako looked at him.

“Not nearly enough fireworks from either side. You’d think with two illegal underground organizations battling for our favor that they’d put on more of a show. Finisher was alright though, eh? The gayest of times, it looks to be!”

Mako looked at him.

“Was _not_ just the one smooch. That cowboy nearly oozed right out of his hat from a teensy smile from the Chinese fella—”

“Japanese.”

“—and like that pair of birds in the sky aren’t cuddled up in some nest this very moment as we yabber on.”

Mako sighed and cracked his neck. 

“I know we decided on Talon ages ago, but I was right, wasn’t I? This squabble oughta decide it all, I said, and now, look! Overwatch it is!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Jack Morrison is officially gay. :D :D :D
> 
> I am OVER THE FUCKING MOON at Blizzard's zero ambiguity about that, but I'm also a smidge grumpy at having to incorporate the canon updates to my stories. And I know I don't have to but I'm a psycho for details so... let's see how this goes lol
> 
> Thanks to everyone reading, commenting and leaving kudos! Means a lot to me <3


	7. Mei / Torbjörn / Zenyatta

**Chapter 7**

**Restraint / Advice / Stability**

* * *

 

“You checked his vitals five minutes ago. Athena would tell you if there were any changes,” Angela commented, studying Mei over the tablet she was scrawling notes on.

“Oh, um, yeah,” Mei mumbled, ducking her head even as she read the machine outputs once more.

How to explain the terror, lingering acid in her bones, of putting someone into cryostasis? And these facilities weren’t nearly as robust as Ecopoint: Antarctica’s, so Mei had had to cobble together an ad-hoc cryostasis chamber out of her own meager equipment and whatever she could find on site.

Watchpoint: Gibraltar’s medical bay had a closet-sized operating room, already chilly with its tiled surfaces and stainless-steel tools and lack of windows. Her endothermic blaster painted the walls with a thick layer of white ice, leaving a hole in the ceiling for the light and a slim gap for the door to the antechamber, like the entrance to an igloo.

Anxiety slicked her palms and jiggled her heartbeat. She would have given _anything_ to not have to do this. But with no airtight cells on the premises, there simply was no other way to restrain Reaper.

“How long until Dr. O’Deorain arrives?” Mei asked, fingers curling into the fabric of her sleeves.

“Shouldn’t be more than six hours.”

Angela’s tone made it clear she would not be throwing a welcome party. Her mouth tightened as she plotted strategies for stabilizing her patient’s condition between sips of scalding hot coffee. Though Mei felt fine in a long-sleeved cotton shirt and sweatpants, Angela had bundled up in standard-issue Overwatch gloves and a thermal coat, both a bit dusty from storage.

Only six hours. The infinite number of things that could go wrong in six hours. The unmoving faces of her colleagues behind ice-blurred glass hovered in the back of Mei’s mind. She squeezed her eyes shut.

Snowball whirred and hovered near her shoulder. She glanced at him with a weak albeit grateful smile. Reaper’s vitals were holding steady, so Mei double-checked the status of the endothermic blaster, jerry-rigged to continuously spray a fine mist over the man lying prone on the operating table. Then she ducked into the antechamber to check the cables leading to the solar panels basking in Gibraltar’s oppressive sunshine on the roof. They were at full capacity, more than enough to last six more hours, even if the sun was setting in less than two.

At length she ran out of things to check and returned to the familiar chill of the operating room. She found herself studying the man whose life was in her hands, frightened of him. Mei had never met Commander Reyes in person. Black Ops was about as far from climate research as you could get, so their paths had never crossed. But she had heard terrible things, not only about what he’d done as Reaper but what he’d done before the fall of Overwatch.

Observing him now, Mei couldn’t imagine why Angela and the rest of the recalled agents thought they could or should transform this monster back into a normal person. His skin was an unearthly shade of grey and split in places by fissures like black wounds, including a particularly gruesome one that trailed from his throat to his left eye.

But the nodes attached to his bare chest reported the sluggish beat of a human heart. Frozen dog tags pooled in the hollow of his throat, a symbol of his complicated past. This was also the man who’d saved the world.

Mei frowned and leaned in closer.

“Dr. Ziegler? Why is Reyes wearing Commander Morrison’s dog tags?”

Angela looked up, puzzled.

“Is he?” She asked, approaching Mei’s side. “That’s strange. I know Jack’s wearing his dog tags. He wouldn’t let me take them off even to patch up his stomach wounds. At least, I assumed they were his, but… Ah.”

Her face softened with a sorrowful sort of joy.

“What is it?” Mei asked.

“Closest thing soldiers have to wedding rings, I suppose,” Angela murmured.

Mei blinked at her in confusion for a second and then blushed red. The icy chamber suddenly felt far too warm.

 

* * *

 

The bathrooms in this stinking Watchpoint had been a pain in the ass back then and they were a pain in the ass now. Communal, of course, like the sleeping quarters. Utilitarian and soulless. One long sink to be shared like a trough.

And of course, it was too damn tall.

Torbjörn muttered curses under his breath as he dragged over a crate, wedging it between Hanzo and McCree, making sure to kick Reinhardt’s ankle as he did so. Times like this, he could kill both Reinhardt and Brigitte for hauling him back here. Then again, it wasn’t like he had many options where he could bring that damned friendly Bastion unit anyway.

“Watch them pointy elbows,” McCree grumbled, toothbrush in his mouth.

The four men were in various stages of disarmed and undressed. In a white tank-top, combat pants and boots, Reinhardt leaned into the cheap mirror, trimming his beard. Torbjörn was dressed much the same. Hanzo, shirtless and barefoot, washed his face, bow and arrows leaning against a nearby wall. Fresh from the shower, McCree was sans hat for once, wearing only a ragged t-shirt and sweatpants beneath his gun holster.

For a minute, there was only the sound of water sloshing into the drain, flossing and brushing, the snicks of tiny silver scissors, the periodic clank of a metal prosthetic against the sink.

“Gonna be weird when Gabriel is in here with us,” McCree mused, handing the tube of generic toothpaste to Hanzo. “Unless o’ course he pulls a Genji and takes to snugglin’ a senior officer in their private quarters.”

“Hmph. He damn well better not,” Torbjörn growled.

Hanzo, brushing his teeth, raised an eyebrow at McCree.

“Mighty strong opinion there,” the cowboy said evenly.

“I don’t know if you noticed how things ended last time,” Torbjörn drawled.

“You sound just like Angie at the UN hearing.”

“She was totally in line.”

“Hang on now—”

“She couldn’t very well tell the UN that their beloved angelic Morrison was fucking the Blackwatch Commander. Talon had already ruined Overwatch’s reputation and a lot of evidence pointed to Reaper’s involvement in that. They needed _something_ to hold up to prove it wasn’t a complete failure.”

“So, they held up Commander Morrison,” Hanzo finished thoughtfully. “It’s tactical.”

“It’s a load of horseshit,” McCree bit out. “Throwin’ Gabriel under the bus when he was the one who needed the most help.”

“Listen,” Torbjörn sighed. “This isn’t about Reaper. I’ve known Jack and Gabriel a lot longer than you. You don’t know how bad some of their fights were. I literally only discovered they were together because I went to take a piss in the middle of the festivities after we’d liberated Rio and came upon them having a screaming match in an alleyway.”

He’d never forget oppressive heat of the night, the glitter and music of an impromptu carnival, glimpsing the fight before his beer-addled brain recognized the two men, the pain and anger zinging between them like a savage electrical current, the snippets of dialogue he could hear like stinging shocks of lightning. The kind of words that left scars.

_You’re a coward. I’d rather hurt your fucking feelings than announce our weak points to everyone. I don’t know why I put up with this. What good is love if it just gets you killed? Why don’t you just shut up for once? Fuck you._

“Trust me, lad.” He caught his own tired reflection in the mirror. “This is not a relationship we should be encouraging.”

“I disagree, old friend,” Reinhardt spoke for the first time, his voice oddly quiet. “Love is always worth fighting for.”

“Of course, love is worth _fighting_ for, but it doesn’t fix everything,” Torbjörn scoffed. “Take it from someone who’s been married thirty-five years. Relationships take trust and communication. And Jack and Gabriel forfeited both a long time ago.”

 

* * *

 

If the Iris took a form on earth, surely, _surely_ , it would be an ocean. The mother of them all, crafting creatures out of sand and salt, teaching them to wobble onto shore, feeding them, punishing them, inspiring them, letting them grow far beyond her, until they could create their own beings.

Raised by mountains in a landlocked country, it was no surprise to Zenyatta that he had fallen quite in love with the breathing, singing sea.

In playful challenge, the breeze nudged the channeling orbs as they lifted and dropped, the Omnicode characters glowing bright in the silvery dawn. _Peace_ , one character danced. _Gratitude_ , whispered another. _Forgiveness. Love. Harmony._ The chimes blended with the hushed song of the waves far below, skating off the cliffside and bursting into the air.

Zenyatta sighed in contentment, feeling as light as the stars yawning high overhead.

Familiar footsteps approached, slow and respectful.

“Master, forgive me for interrupting.”

Zenyatta took a moment to silently thank the ocean for all it had given them and prayed to be able to give even a fraction as much in his lifetime. 

“I am always happy to see one of my brightest pupils,” he hummed, allowing the orbs to return to their usual gentle orbit. “I must thank you again for this most pleasant of meditation spots.”

“It is Angela you should thank.”

Zenyatta bowed his head in acknowledgment, the spirit of a smile about him. He had helped Genji broker peace between his body and mind, but Angela was the one who sparked excitement in him. Excitement for the future. Excitement for what he could do to change it for the better. It was marvelous to observe Genji’s energy these days, particularly when compared to the desperately conflicted youth he had been. He had much to thank Angela for, indeed.

“You have something on your mind,” Zenyatta prompted.

“Yes…” Genji started, debating how to word his request. “I was wondering if you would mind contributing one of your orbs, or even your presence, to the operating room.”

“Of course,” he replied, floating to his feet to walk alongside him.

He had found that most humans were somewhat unnerved by levitation in humanoid omnics. Though not in their vehicles for some reason. Curious.

“I am, however, not sure of what assistance I could be to two such accomplished medical professionals,” he murmured as they entered the facility.

“Well… I think you will understand once we get closer,” Genji said wryly.

The halls were cool and dim in the early morning, lit by warm orange footlights. Raised female voices echoed through the otherwise quiet medical bay. A few feet down from the door to the operating room’s antechamber, leaning still as a statue against the wall was the twisting tornado of emotion that was Jack Morrison. Zenyatta and Genji gave him short bows of greeting before entering.

Despite the modest size of the room, their presence was not immediately noticed because of—

“It is _not_ comparable to the LIF6 gene because this is—"

“It absolutely is! It’s a zombie gene!"

“Would you bloody listen? The nanites aren’t creating new proteins to attack the damaged cells; they are replicating the cells to sustain them, including the damage, and supplementing them with cells absorbed from other human lifeforms.”

“That doesn’t mean we can’t introduce methods of cultivating LIF6 to lower his body’s need to absorb external cells.”

“We already decided that would sacrifice his current stability!”

—the argument blasting back and forth between the two women.

A wide-eyed Mei sat on the floor just outside the makeshift cryostasis chamber, flinching at the barbs flying through the air. She was barely visible through all the medical machinery and monitoring equipment.

Genji cleared his throat loudly. Angela and Moira, both red-faced in anger, glared at each other before glancing over.

“Perhaps I can be of service?” Zenyatta proposed.

“Are you a cup of coffee?” Moira snapped.

“I am not. However…”

He held out his hand and one of his orbs settled into it like a bird. Moira observed, fascinated. Her drive for knowledge was like a comet, Zenyatta sensed with a touch of sadness. It scorched everything in its path as it flew ever faster, and eventually it would burn itself to ash.

“This orb channels positive Omnic energy and was specifically carved to resonate with the spirit of restoration. If it is a stabilizing influence you are seeking, this may be your answer.”

“Scientific analysis and deduction will provide us an answer,” Moira sniffed. “Not spiritual mumbo jumbo.”

“Let me reword my suggestion then,” Zenyatta said, warm and unperturbed. “The orbs carry an ion-altering charge that activates the mitochondria in living cells in order to slow decay and encourage natural regrowth at a rate that won’t interfere with any external applications of biotic fluid.”

Moira blinked a few times.

“You have truly remarkable eyes,” the Omnic added.

“That…Wait, that could work, yes,” Angela said, doing frantic recalculations on a holo-screen.

Zenyatta hummed in delight and poked his head into the icy chamber to enable the orb to hover over Gabriel. It attached to him with a glowing rope of light not unlike Angela’s healing stream.

He then settled lightly next to Mei to watch the two women work, as roiling and spritely and concerned with life and death as the sea beneath the cliffs. Though they had been wrangling with their task and each other for hours, both were too charged with adrenaline to display any signs of tiredness.

Mei’s heartache pulsed low and sad at his side, and he assigned her an orb as well, knowing he could only temporarily soothe her pain, that time was the only true healer for her loss. She thanked him before returning to exhausted silence.

The dawn climbed into a hot noon and kept going. Jack’s presence down the hall remained fixed in place. Genji left and returned more than once. McCree and a few others as well, occasionally with offerings of sandwiches and coffee. Just as the sun reached its apogee, Angela and Moira called upon Mei to ease Gabriel out of his frozen state, certain they had at long last discovered how to stabilize both his cells and the nanites fused with them.

As the former commander’s heart returned to its usual rhythm, Zenyatta sensed his spirit warm to life as well. So much pain. So much fear. So much love. This was a man who had long sold his heart and soul and physical well-being to protect the world. And the world had betrayed him, demanded even more from him, abandoned him.

With deep concentration, Zenyatta sent a silent, shimmery message through the orb watching over Gabriel: 

_The path forward will be difficult. But your pain will ease if you remain strong. Open your mind. There is love waiting for you._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, even writing from Zenyatta's POV is like meditation lol He's such a ball of positivity.
> 
> For those interested, the LIF6 gene is a real thing. It's a dead gene that can come back to life and prevents cancer by killing cells with DNA damage. Science is pretty damn cool. You can read more here: https://www.sciencedaily.com/releases/2018/08/180814173643.htm 
> 
> Thank you, as always, to the people leaving kind words and kudos <3 You are the reason we write.


	8. D.Va / Symmetra / Sombra

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're in the home stretch now ;) Thanks so much to everyone who's stuck with me on this story!
> 
> P.S. Yes, I rejiggered the chapter names.

**Chapter 8  
**

**Sharing / Logic / Digits**

* * *

 

Hana peered up at launchpad infrastructure, squinting at the cloudy sky and popping her gum as she did some rough mental calculations. It would take a lot of repairs for any of this to be fully functional again. More repairs than they had the funds or manpower to complete.

The ramshackle state of Watchpoint: Gibraltar’s facilities reminded her of home a little. There was the same scrappy comradery that sprang up when people gathered to rebuild, armed with passion more than expertise. Agents who had been recalled for their tactical, medical or scientific prowess all rolled up their sleeves to clean and fix and restore.

She sighed and meandered back towards the Watchpoint’s main building, enjoying the cool breeze despite her misgivings. Simply wanting the MEKA squad to run joint missions with Overwatch wouldn’t be enough to convince the Korean Defense Forces that it ought to loan its star pilots to the cause. Hana needed to build a solid case with concrete evidence to demonstrate that the extra life Overwatch had pulled out of nowhere was worth investing in.

Zenyatta greeted her as he floated by with a large wheel of electrical cord. Genji skipped after him with other supplies needed to restore power to the outlying buildings, pausing to pop her bubble with a poke of his finger. She yelled in mock outrage as he flipped away.

“You’ll rot your teeth out with that stuff,” Dr. Ziegler warned, emerging from one of the supply rooms.

Her clothes and skin were grimy with dust. Several blackened sponges floated in the bucket of dirty water she carried.

Hana rolled her eyes. “How about I’ll stop chewing gum when McCree stops smoking?”

Dr. Ziegler grimaced and glanced towards the raised platform where McCree, Reinhardt and Hanzo were prying open crates to inventory their contents. Hana noticed a lone figure also watching them from afar, leaning against the exterior of a building with his arms folded.

Gabriel Reyes.

Hana had to say, the big scary terrorist Reaper wasn’t nearly so threatening in an old Overwatch t-shirt and jeans. Nevertheless, the other agents were super awkward around him and honestly, it was kind of funny to watch. Satya and Zenyatta were the only people who seemed to be able to have a totally normal conversation with him.

Curious, she wandered in his direction.

“So, what’s your story?”

He didn’t acknowledge her, which gave her a few seconds to study him. If Hana had a thing for older men, she’d be totally into him. He was still all muscle. Scars broke up the smooth planes of his face. His hair and beard were deep silver. His eyes were kind of weird though and kept shifting from normal to completely, possessed-by-a-demon black.

“You must have been briefed on me already,” he responded at last, gruff, clearly hoping that would be the end of this exchange.

“Well, yeah, but a briefing isn’t a _story_.”

There was another long pause. She blew bubbles and kept her expectant gaze on him until he finally spat out a clipped summary of what he’d been through. Going from world savior to smoke monster to whoever he was now. Going from knowing his purpose, to being manipulated into serving a different purpose, to having no purpose.

Hana stared at him with wide eyes.

“Ohmygod, you’re basically Zero from _Mega Man X_!”

Whatever reaction he was expecting, it certainly wasn’t that. An incredulous frown graced his features.

“What happened to your cool coat?” She asked. “Is it too bad guy ish?”

“A casualty of my health stabilizing. All nanite resources are limited to organic matter production only.”

“Aw, that sucks.”

He huffed out a laugh. “Well, the trade-off is being able to age at a normal rate without needing to drain the lifeforce out of others. So, I’ll get over it.”

“But you’re shivering. And it’s like, barely chilly.”

“That’s nothing new. I’m from Los Angeles. Been cold ever since I left it. Just ask—”

He cut himself off. Her eyes narrowed, shrewd and gleeful.

“Just ask who?”

“No one. Never mind."

“Uh-uh. Who? Ana? McCree? Dr. Ziegler?"

“Christ, you’re annoying.”

She gave him a demonic grin. “I’m also _really_ persistent. Torbjörn? Lena?”

“You’re that desperate to know who can confirm that I’ve been cold for thirty-odd years?”

“Duh? Someone has body heat stats on the Grim Reaper. Is it Reinhardt? Soldier: 76? Oh? _Oh?_ What was that face? I’m right? 76?”

“Oh for fuck’s sake, _yes_. Alright?”

She burst into delighted laughter. “I knew it! So, why aren’t you getting him to help keep you warm?”

“You’re right,” he deadpanned. “Cuddling with my ex, who I tried to kill, is much less awkward than just buying a new hoodie.”

“Uh. So, say sorry, _then_ share warmth.”

“He’s got plenty to apologize for too.” He scowled.

“K. So, say sorry, tell him to say sorry, then cuddle.”

“You’re a child. You have no clue how complicated this shit actually is. We’ve got baggage twice your age.”

“Yeah, and? Just ‘cause you’re old doesn’t mean you’re smart. I might not have grey hair, but I know you and 76 haven’t spent more than five minutes in the same room with each other since I got here.”

“There’s a good reason for that. As fun as revisiting heartbreak is, not happening. He doesn’t want to revisit anything either.”

“How the hell would you know? You haven’t talked to him ever!”

Gabriel pinched the bridge of his nose in exasperation. Hana rolled her eyes. Sometimes it seemed like the older someone got, the dumber they got. She’d known kids in grade school with better communication skills than this.

“He looks for you,” she said. “At mealtimes. It’s super shifty and subtle, but he always looks for you. And it’s not like a glare kind of look. More like a ‘relieved you’re still here’ kind of look.”

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

“Oh, so, you already knew about it. Wonder how you’d know that? Maybe because you’re looking for him, too? C’mon, talk to him. What have you got to lose?”

“It’s way too late to fix things.”

“Oooh, you sounded just like Zero right then. All angst. But I mean, dumb excuse. If it’s too late to fix things and put them back the way they were, try to start something new instead. You gotta talk to do that though. Nothing’s ever going to change if you just keep avoiding each other.”

“Who says I want things to change?”

“Your mealtime moony eyes.”

After an excruciatingly long moment, Gabriel sighed. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s worth a shot.”

“Duh? Of course, I’m right? I’m nineteen. I know everything.”

 

* * *

 

Having completed with utmost precision all preparations for lunch, enough curry for a dozen people, with only the rice cooker to wait for, Satya took a seat in the cafeteria and opened her book to where she’d left off. She barely glanced up when the doors opened.

Reyes and Morrison noted her position upon entering, but evidently judged her sufficiently disinterested and elected to continue their conversation. It helped, no doubt, that they were on opposite sides of the room. And that Satya’s recent assistance in ascertaining the extent of Vishkar’s influence on their brains had earned her their trust.

She took care to keep her expression neutral and to turn a page every 75 seconds in order to continue to convince them of her disinterest. Years ago, this façade would have been impossible for her. She was proud of the great progress she’d made.

When she realized as a child that there was an entire language of facial expressions and tonal indicators that came naturally to others but not to her, she had done what she did best. Analyzed the situation and determined that it would be to her detriment not to develop a fluency in ‘social cues’. Thus, she performed extensive research and observations in order to create her own reference guide, most of which she’d committed to memory.

These days, it often did feel natural to interpret vocal tone and gestures. However, she’d never pass up an opportunity to continue her studies. Particularly the opportunity to observe those in private dialogue, as this was when more vulnerable and rarer demonstrations of emotion tended to happen.

Despite the cafeteria’s size, she could hear Reyes and Morrison well enough, but this appeared to be one of those conversations where the words were almost nonsensical in how little they actually conveyed. She focused on the other elements of their communication.

Reyes had his arms folded, either out of a need to project strength or to counter the sensation of being too cold. Perhaps both. His tone was gruff and his sentences broken, as though he were trying to express a desire, but was hampered by fear of Morrison’s reception of said desire.

Morrison was also demonstrably defensive in his verbal and non-verbal cues. It didn’t surprise her that soon their voices rose in volume. Conflict had been inevitable. This inability to communicate in a clear and effective manner fascinated Satya. It truly wasn’t very difficult to state one’s feelings outright.

Morrison said, “You never listened to me!” instead of the less aggressive, “I would appreciate if you acknowledged my statements and their underlying emotions.”

Reyes said, “ _You_ never wanted to talk. It was either fucking or silence with you!” Which obviously would have been better expressed as, “I desire emotional connection and am worried that fear drove us to rely on intercourse as a crutch.”

Morrison said, “Why the fuck do you have to make this so difficult?” when he ought to have said, “I am frustrated that you appear to be reluctant to speak candidly with me.”

Reyes said, “I don’t know why I thought you’d care” when “I suspect you are fond of me but I also have doubts, thus I wish you would demonstrate affection” would have been more effective.

‘I’ statements were important to communicate one’s feelings in a non-hostile way, Satya had learned.

Reyes flung out his hands in a recognizable gesture of vexation and turned towards the cafeteria doors. Morrison’s eyes widened, an indicator of panic or concern, and grabbed Reyes’ wrist in an act of desperation likely born out of the inability to express himself verbally.

Reyes’ arm dissolved into smoke and reformed outside of Morrison’s grasp, which was not body language Satya was familiar with, but from the pause that followed and the look Reyes gave his own wrist, Satya deduced it was an accident, an automatic response rather than true intent to disengage.

Reyes’ facial expression and body language clearly projected his wish to apologize, but instead he walked out the door. Satya broke her act of nonchalance to frown at the incongruous action. Morrison clenched and opened his fists in agitation.

“You ought to pursue him,” Satya called out.

“Why the hell would I do that?” Morrison snarled.

Anger, but not at her or at Reyes. Anger at the situation at hand and at his own response to it. Anger, Satya had learned, was a deceptive emotion. More often than not, it was actually fear.

“Your rounded posture and lowered eyes show you feel regret that your conversation did not proceed smoothly. His downturned mouth and tensed shoulders indicated he feels the same. His withdrawal from your physical contact was obviously unintentional. There is no reason for you to not be able to rectify this miscommunication and continue your dialogue. I suggest that you begin your statements with ‘I’ and use unambiguous vocabulary.”

Morrison looked at the door, his desire to follow Reyes through it quite evident. And yet, to Satya’s immense irritation, he remained immobile.

“Can you explain to me the source of your reluctance?” She huffed. “You appear fearful even though Reyes has demonstrated signs that he too desires connection. He is unlikely to physically attack.”

To her surprise, Morrison started laughing. Not in mockery. Genuine mirth.

“I don’t understand. Why was that funny?”

“Because you’re right.”

He raced out the door, leaving Satya baffled. She considered attributing Reyes’ and Morrison’s illogical behavior to their enhanced physical states, but she knew enough to know that this wasn’t a super soldier thing. It was a human thing. She’d file this incident with the other examples of how romantic relationships induced people to act in an unpredictable and often self-detrimental manner.

The rice cooker clicked off and Satya rose to complete the lunchtime preparations. At least there was order and logic to be found in cooking.

 

* * *

 

Of course, Sombra knew about Jack and Gabriel.

It wasn’t exactly the best kept secret on the planet. As soon as she’d begun working alongside Reaper, she’d pored over what remained of Overwatch’s files, searching for information on the former Blackwatch commander and finding plenty.

Leverage was everything. Necessary for your enemies; doubly necessary for your allies.

Thus why, once again, she was trawling through Athena’s security cameras. Blackmail would make it so much easier to convince the Overwatch agents to work with her, should she need their resources.

Plus, Doomfist was breathing steam and had personally commanded her to uncover what had happened to their star mercenary. Sombra had yet to decide whether it would benefit her to rat Moira out. The Irishwoman had returned to Oasis with alibis ready for Talon’s inquiries as to her and Gabriel’s whereabouts. She was a slippery one. Like Sombra, she probably considered Overwatch an escape route, a back-up plan in case Talon turned on her.

Sitting cross-legged in her room at Château Guillard, Sombra picked over the various feeds from Watchpoint: Gibraltar spread across her massive monitors.

D.Va, Mei and Zenyatta were deep in conversation and cleaning dishes in the kitchen. Winston, Tracer, Genji and Mercy were playing cards while eating lunch in the canteen. The Vishkar architech had her nose buried in her book.

Reinhardt and Brigitte were supervising the two junkers, identical frowns of mistrust on their faces, as the four of them sorted through an enormous pile of scrap metal. In Torbjörn’s workshop, he and Ana were making adjustments to her biotic rifle while that weird Bastion watched with avid curiosity.

Hanzo and McCree were… doing something _very_ worthy of blackmail in one of the training rooms.

Sombra raised an eyebrow and logged that recording in her archives.

Not quite who she’d been looking for though.

Rotating through cameras, she finally located Gabriel and Jack in the staircase near the server room, where they appeared to be talking. Or trying to talk. Sombra could practically _see_ the tension between them. After a few minutes, she succeeded in activating and tapping into the audio feed.

“—don’t really know where I end and the Reaper begins. The mask was only amplifying impulses that were there already. Being Reaper was easy. No more worrying about a team’s safety, about reports, being vetted and approved. I’ve killed a lot of people.”

“You were being manipulated,” Jack said after a moment of hesitation. “It easily could have been me.”

“…No. I’m not sure it could. I killed plenty of people in Blackwatch. I was already… let’s be generous and say ‘compromised’.”

“Many of them you killed because I didn’t have the stomach to do what was necessary. I don’t know. Maybe I never had the stomach to lead Overwatch to be what the world needed.”

“Maybe not the stomach." The next sentence was barely audible. "You had the heart though.”

This was some Telemundo-level shit. Popcorn. Sombra needed popcorn. She kept the feed on a holographic screen as she padded through the empty house to the kitchen and put a bag in the microwave. She teleported back to her room with a full bowl, still glued to the drama unfolding.

“Are you going to stay?”

“Not many other places for me to go,” Gabriel said with a shrug.

“Do you…” Jack started. It took a minute for him to finish the question. “…want to stay?”

“Do you want me to?”

They stared at each other. Jack gave a nearly imperceptible nod of his head.

“Why?” Gabriel asked.

Another awkward pause.

“Never actually broke up,” Jack finally murmured.

“Never officially together either.”

“You really believe that?” Jack asked, sliding a finger under the chain around his neck and pulling Gabriel’s dog tags free from beneath his shirt.

A sad smile crossed Gabriel’s face. “Easily hidden, tucked away.”

“It was never about hiding us.”

“Wasn’t it? You freaked out when Mercy saw us in the hangar. You took every precaution you could to not let anyone find out.”

“Because I didn’t want Overwatch to have this, too! I was giving them everything. _You_ were giving them everything. I just wanted this one part of my life to be mine, ours, separate from the press and the UN and all the fucking opinions we had to be mindful of.”

“Jack—”

“ _I know._ I know it was unfair.” Jack let out a bone-deep sigh. “And I let them bury us anyway. I’m sorry. For whatever it’s worth. I’m sorry for a lot of things, but letting you slip away, not being there for you… That’s the regret that keeps me up at night.”

Silence wormed its way between them.

Gabriel appeared vaguely stunned. As though he couldn’t quite believe he’d heard right. Before he could form a response, a volley of shivers wracked his torso. Sombra could see the goosebumps on the feed.

Jack ran his eyes over Gabriel’s bare arms and he shrugged his jacket off, holding it out for Gabriel to take.

Sombra held her breath, popcorn halfway to her mouth.

Gabriel stared at him with a mixture of surprise and gratitude. After a moment of hesitation, he took it and slowly pulled it on. They looked at each other, a little embarrassed, and broke into low laughter.

“This is some real cliché romantic shit, Morrison.”

“Yeah, well, you deserve some cliché.”

“Gonna be hard to pretend nothing’s going on between us if I’ve got your number on my back.”

A soft, hopeful expression lit up Jack’s scarred face. He stepped closer.

Gabriel watched him with liquid eyes. Though he made no move, his whole body seemed charged with longing.

“So, keep the jacket,” Jack said.

Gabriel kissed him then. The real deal. Hands cradling Jack’s face, thumbs running over his cheekbones.

Jack practically melted into the hold, his arms winding around Gabriel’s lower back beneath the jacket, squeezing tight.

They clung to each other with an edge of desperation, kissing like it was the first time. Or the last.

Sombra was _not_ crying. Her eyes were just dry from staring at screens all day and chose this moment to start watering. Definitely not crying.


End file.
